Raw Material
by EmRose92
Summary: The Enterprise is newly refitted with a brand new Captain, crew, and mission. All it needs now is a new CMO. When a divorcee with no Starfleet training and nowhere else to go turns up at Recruitment, he is offered the chance. Enter Leonard McCoy. ON HIATUS.
1. One

This started as a one-shot that I wasn't very fond of, so I started completely over and it turned out completely different. Unfortunately (fortunately?) it decided to expand into a multi-fic piece along the way. I will warn you all now that I am back in college and my schoolwork is now first priority. So this will come when it can, but I can't promise frequent updates. I will promise to finish it, since I hate leaving work undone, but it might take a while!

-EmRose

**Raw Material**

**

* * *

One**

"Mr. McCoy."

The young, bright, sunny secretary beamed up at the room in general. Her first week on the job had not yet taught her the appropriate demeanor for the dismal atmosphere at Starfleet Recruitment. For a second nobody stirred. Then a pair of long legs and a glare further darkened by several days worth of stubble unfolded itself from the far corner and loped to the front desk. The secretary smiled up at him, undaunted by that formidable glower now aimed at her person.

"Just through those doors as soon as the Admiral is ready for you," she chirped.

"That's Doctor."

The secretary was unprepared for the low, hoarse Southern slur, and she frowned politely.

"I'm sorry?"

"That's Doctor, missy. I'm a Doctor. Doctor McCoy."

He was not shouting, exactly, but neither was his irritated correction quiet, and the silent recruitment office had no trouble hearing every word. He seemed undisturbed by the attention, however, and laid a hand on her desk in front of him to emphasize his point. "I went through twelve long years of medical school, and I do believe that that earns me the right to call myself _Doctor_. If I've got nothing else, I've got _that, _for however much it's worth. Am I understood?"

The secretary felt her sunny mood disappearing in the wake of this unexpected confrontation, but she pasted a repentant smile on her face and prayed for the doors behind her to open. "Understood, Doctor. I apologize."

The man's face softened, and he removed his hand from the desk and scratched it across his jaw instead. There was an awkward pause in which someone behind him coughed uncomfortably and the scarlet-faced secretary prayed more fervently, but then he said in softer gravel, "Naw. I'm the one should be apologizing. You had no way to know. The fault ain't yours; I've got no call to be bawling you out. I _am_ sorry."

The secretary blinked in surprise, but she accepted the proffered hand. She was expecting a rather raw shake-on-the-deal, but received instead a firm, gentle, lingering clasp and a warm smile that brightened briefly the darkest, saddest eyes she had ever seen. But then the doctor released her hand, the eyes faded back to dull, weary grief, and the door behind her opened.

"Just through those doors, sir," she stuttered.

"Thank you, ma'am." He ran his fingers through tousled brown hair and disappeared through the door. The secretary was left with her roster and a room full of silent would-be Starfleet recruits. As the door closed with a gentle hiss, she pondered those haunted eyes and wondered for the first time what sort of despair could bring a man to Starfleet. Nothing could be further from home, further from everything a man knew and loved on earth than Space. She could hardly imagine leaving her family, her home, and her beloved homeworld to travel uncharted space for years at a time.

But then, she thought, if a man had no home and no family, what better place to create something worth living for than enlisting in the most strenuous, challenging, and prestigious military endeavor in the Federation? She looked down at the roster and sent another prayer heavenward for one Leonard. H. McCoy, Georgia, age thirty-nine, hair: brown, eyes: blue, height: 5'11.

_May you find whatever it is you're looking for in Starfleet. God bless you, Doctor._

_

* * *

_If first impressions were all Admiral Christopher Blake based new recruits on, the wrinkled, scruffy specimen in front of him wouldn't have had a chance to sit down before he was shown exactly where to exit. Fortunately for the unfortunate-looking gentleman, Admiral Blake was willing to wait for the second impression.

"Have a seat, sir," he said.

The man sank into the chair across the broad desk and placed both hands on the armrests comfortably. "Thank you, Admiral," he said gruffly.

"Name, age, and reason for enlisting in Starfleet," Blake said. He clasped both hands in front of him and looked for eye-contact. Surprisingly, it was given him immediately.

"Leonard McCoy, age thirty-nine. Reason…well, I'd have to say to escape, sir."

"To escape what, McCoy?"

To the man's credit, he maintained the eye-contact, though Blake saw his hands clench the armrests nervously.

"A nasty divorce," he said quietly. "My wife took just about everything I care about here on Earth, including my daughter. I need to get away. I've got to get away and I want to practice medicine in a place that doesn't remind me of the private practice I lost."

"So you're a doctor." Blake's mind attempted to reconcile the image of white-coats and sterile equipment to the three-day growth and crumpled, though admittedly clean, clothes on the skinny, vaguely desperate figure before him. He was again surprised to find it in the squared shoulders, well-manicured hands, and the obvious intelligence in the eyes. "And you _want_ to be a Space Doctor."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you sure that's what you want? There'll be little tolerance for deserting once you've sobered."

The man's eyes flashed and Blake could have sworn that the man grew several inches in his indignation.

"I might not be much to look at, Admiral, but I am entirely sober. I'll admit I've not come my best, and I'll wager you've seen prospective recruits looking a thousand times more qualified. But I'll promise you that I draw the line at drinking myself painless to the point that I don't know where or who I am or what I'm bloody doing. And I'd be unpleasantly surprised, sir, if you can't see that."

Blake held up a dismissive hand. "I consider myself duly chastened, Doctor."

The would-be recruit relaxed somewhat, even looking slightly ashamed of his outburst, but his eyes were still sparking. He let his gaze dance around the room for a moment, and then they returned fixed on Blake's curious gaze.

"Do you want to know why I lost my private practice?"

Blake nodded. "And I warn you, McCoy, If your reason isn't something bloody good you'll be out this office faster than warp..."

"It's good."

Blake was unaccustomed to being interrupted and he nearly retaliated, but something in this man's demeanor calmed him. It was an explosive combination, this insolent, bordering-on-insubordinate confidence with strangely quieting, reassuring competency. It struck Blake suddenly that either this man would be completely unable to function when faced with the demanding Fleet officers, or that he would be among the best doctors Starfleet had ever seen. He realized that he had already accepted McCoy into their ranks in his mind, and was again astonished with himself. What was so incredibly charismatic about this man's personality? The doctor was eyeing him with one eyebrow raised, and he waved an impatient hand.

"Go on, then."

"My ex-wife's father granted me the place when I married his daughter," he said without preamble. "I came to her with nothing and would have been happy to _have _nothing, but he wouldn't hear of sending her off to live any less than the wealthy upbringing she had. We signed the documents as a wedding present. I've been working ever since we were married to pay it off, and I was almost there when she decided she wanted a divorce. It wasn't until after we'd signed the papers that we found that all of the documents were under her name before mine. She took the whole place when she left—I could have gone to court, maybe gotten it back, but the hurt wasn't worth it. It wasn't really mine yet, anyway, not since I still owed her father." The doctor shifted in his chair, chewing at his lip. His voice was so quiet when he spoke again that Blake had to lean forward to catch the words. "And if her having it means she can support my Joanna, I'd give her ten times as much."

Blake looked at McCoy for a long moment, wrestling with himself. The man's story was nothing he hadn't heard before, but something about him felt different. It came to him when McCoy's eyes met his again, and he saw the spark behind the sadness. Most men and women he'd met who had lost everything were beaten. This man was anything but. Broken, yes. Desperate, yes. But beaten he was not.

"How old is your daughter?" he heard himself ask. He was glad he had when the spark brightened in McCoy's face, touching his lips in a soft smile.

"She's eighteen. Heading off to college in the fall—going into medicine. Always hoped she would…" his voice tailed off, and he shrugged proudly. "She's a beautiful girl. Looks like her mother, acts like me." He laughed, and the sound made Blake smile involuntarily. "She got the best of both worlds."

Blake leaned back in his chair, positive this man was going to Starfleet. He didn't know where, yet, but something big and potentially life-changing was stirring in his mind—he didn't know how his superior officers might take it, but he'd always been an openly intuitive man, and right now his intuition was slapping him across the face.

"Well, McCoy," he said. "I want you in the Fleet. Consider yourself recruited."

McCoy reacted much as Blake had suspected he might—a soft little grin, and then the veil across his eyes dropped again as he stood. He extended his hand, but Blake waved it away.

"Sit down. I'm not through with you."

McCoy sank back down and waited while Blake watched him through lidded eyes, turning a PADD pencil over and over in his hands.

"McCoy, I'm going to offer you something you may or may not want to take," Blake said at last. The odds had been weighed, and, whether luckily or unluckily, they had come out in McCoy's favor.

"Sir?"

"I'm going to offer you a position on the _Enterprise_."

Confusion, and then realization dawned and McCoy's jaw dropped. "The _Enterprise_, Admiral? Well, now, I'd hardly expect…"

"I'm not finished. The new Captain of that Starship happens to be a friend of mine, and one who reminds me of _me_ when I captained my own ship fifteen years ago. He's young, brash, extraordinarily intelligent, and remarkably intuitive. Some are calling him the potentially best Starship Captain we've seen in decades. This is his first commission, so I guess you'll be among the first to see if the rumors are true. I think you'd work well with him."

"On the _Enterprise_." McCoy shook his head ever-so-slightly, but the smile was back in his eyes. "You're sure about this, Admiral?"

"I'll have to run it by my superiors," Blake said, "But they've trusted my judgment for nearly ten years now, and I think they'll be willing to give you a shot. But don't let me down—I'll have to pull a few strings to get a civil practitioner with nothing but a crash course in Starship training into the Fleet, much less onto their beloved Flagship. She's just undergone some rather extensive rebooting, and she's turned out a real beauty. Light years from when Captain Chris Pike first took her out a few years ago. I'd rather you didn't blow this for both our sakes."

"Thank you, sir. I won't let you down."

"Then that's all we have left to discuss." Blake stood, and McCoy followed suit. Blake could swear the man positively _bounced _as they shook hands. "You'll report in two days to the Starfleet Training Academy. You'll only get a three-week course in Starfleet equipment and regulations, and then you're on your way. It'll be brutal, but the _Enterprise_ leaves the quadrant on her maiden voyage in three weeks and you'll need to be on board when she does."

"Yes, sir. I'll be there."

Blake nodded. "One more thing. You'd better be serious about this, because she isn't coming back for a few years. The Fleet has her scheduled for what they're calling a "five-year mission", and she's not expected to make many trips in the area of home. Once you're signed on, you might just be stuck for a good long while."

McCoy inclined his head. "Understood."

"Then good luck, Doctor. And welcome to Starfleet."

TBC

* * *

Review, please...let me know if I should make time for this now, or if I should let it go until my semester ends because no one really cares...just kidding. I think.


	2. Two

Chapter Two, written between bouts of homework, so if its a little muddled, I apologize. I hope this clears up some concern over how easy the strings were pulled in the last chapter!

* * *

**Two**

Christopher Blake was not a happy man. As a rule, he was a fairly easy-going, pleasant man who had advanced to Admiral rank not because he was an excellent commander but because he was an extremely intelligent man with a strong sense of right and wrong and the influence and education to get him places. He was always quick to see the good in others before the bad, believed in multiple chances, and loved the Federation patriotically. He had captained the _USS Destination_ for only two years before Starfleet had decided that he was better suited working behind a desk rather than in the high-stress, high-demand position of Starship Captain. He was more than happy to return to earth and had taken up a teaching position at the Academy in which he excelled. Starfleet Command had then recruited him to the recruitment office, where he performed even better than he had in the classroom—though he hadn't been the most impressive, go-get-'em commander the Fleet had ever seen, he could pick them like no one else could.

This was the first time in a long time that Command had chosen to discard his recommendation.

"He's too raw, too undisciplined for Starfleet," they said. "He's unpredictable."

"He's brilliant."

"Undoubtedly. But his records indicate that his brilliance does not extend to submitting to authority. His recent divorce has left him unstable, and the last thing the _Enterprise _needs is an untested, unreliable doctor."

"But his breakthrough with the neural grafting procedure a few years ago…"

"Yes, yes, Blake. It's an incredible discovery. Absolute genius_._ But extraordinary as the man's mind is, that doesn't change the fact that he has no experience on a Starship and sending him straight to the _Enterprise_ is madness. If he had a year to prepare, even a few months, we would consider it. But three weeks? We'd be jeopardizing the entire mission."

"His records indicate excellent capability to absorb information. He would be learning as he went, but he would learn quickly."

"Quickly isn't good enough, Admiral. This mission would eat a brand new cadet alive. As practiced as this McCoy is in private medicine, he wouldn't have a clue where to begin commanding a highly specialized team of the best medical personnel Starfleet has to offer. With the likes of M'Benga and Piper signed aboard already, his three weeks of training would make him a laughingstock. He'd be absolutely incompetent."

"I'm not saying he's got to command, or that I even want him to command. But I think he's adaptable, intelligent, creative, and the _Enterprise _needs another junior doctor."

"You haven't mentioned the fact that you feel sorry for him, Blake, and you want him on board because you think it'll give him the opportunity he needs to get over his divorce…now, Blake, you know it's true. But we just can't place that entire crew in _more_ danger than they're going to face these next five years because one of its doctors is only there because you've taken a liking to him. He might be capable, he might even be perfect for the job. But we can't know that. The _Enterprise_ is not a place for experiments."

"Forgive me, but I thought that the _Enterprise_ was all about experiments."

"Not so far as her crew."

"Forgive me again if I'm out of place, Admiral, but might I ask your reasoning behind her _Captain?_"

"James Kirk has been on several missions on several different Starships already, and has taken temporary command several different times under extreme circumstances. This may be his first real commission, but he has proven himself to be more than capable of Captaincy. We're taking a slight gamble on him, but at least we know his character, and we know that he won't buckle under stress."

"Then there's nothing I can do to make you change your mind?"

"I'm sorry, Blake. Our decision is final."

"Very well. I'll inform him directly. Permission to be dismissed."

"Denied. We may not want McCoy on the _Enterprise_, but we could use him elsewhere. There's a position open on the _Constitution_. She's en route to Capella IV in a few weeks to introduce the natives to the Federation. From previous studies, they have little knowledge of modern medicine, and we're hoping that if we leave a few of our personnel with them for a few months that they'll feel more comfortable with opening negotiations for topeline mining rights. She's in need of an Assistant CMO who'd be willing to stay on Capella IV for as long as the natives are interested. With his extensive medical knowledge, McCoy is a reasonable candidate."

At this point in the conversation, Blake's hopes had been all but dashed. At this new, unexpected offer, he hesitated only a moment.

"I'll contact him and inform you directly of his decision. Thank you, Admiral."

"Chris…"

Blake turned at the door.

"Despite this being a planet-side mission, if McCoy proves himself competent and willing to take orders for the few weeks he's out in space, he may find a future in Starfleet. Tell him that."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

* * *

Leonard McCoy was assigned to the USS _Constitution_, and though the disappointment was bitter, he didn't blame Blake in the slightest. There had been a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that the _Enterprise_ was out of his league anyways, and after all, since nothing else in his life was going right, why should this impetuous decision to join Starfleet? At least the _Constitution _was more than just a mining vessel or a moon-shuttle, though it had nothing on the flagship. And though he was going planet-side for a diplomatic mission, at least he'd be practicing medicine.

And at least he'd be out of this _blasted_ Academy.

His mind hadn't felt so wrung out and abused since he'd finished Medical School, and he had so many regulations and procedures and subtle differences between equipment on earth and equipment in space bouncing around in his head that his dreams were infused with them. He slept only enough to get him through the next day, and spent his nineteen and twenty hour days studying and researching. He'd always enjoyed school, but simple studying with no practical applications was torture.

But heck, anything to get him off-planet.

* * *

Jim Kirk had long suspected that the universe was out to get him, and now he was certain. The sight of Gary Mitchell standing above him was confirmation enough. He had seen Gary at this angle only a few times in the course of their friendship, and it had never meant anything good. The sight of Gary Mitchell looking _concerned_ was something even rarer seen, and Kirk wasn't sure how to take it. He didn't remember how he'd got to be looking at his best friend from this odd perspective, nor was he sure why he couldn't move his body or why his head hurt so much.

"Jim? Hey, Jim, you all right? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah…yeah, I can hear you," Kirk tried to say, but his mouth wouldn't move either. That was concerning.

"Jim, wiggle your fingers if you understand me."

"Gary…" it hurt, but he managed the name, and Mitchell's face broke into a relieved grin.

"Well, you _are _alive. Welcome back. It's been lonely."

Kirk cleared his throat, coughed, and tried to process the meaning of those cryptic words. "Welcome back?"

Mitchell laughed. "Yeah. You've been out for three days now. I was starting to get a little worried."

"What happened?"

"You don't remember?" A little smile was twitching at Mitchell's lips now, and his dark eyes were dancing with suppressed mirth. "I swear, Jim you forget all the good stuff. You took out six guys three nights ago in the Starfleet cafeteria, all six of 'em a heckuva lot bigger than you. Guys from the Academy, ensigns from the _USS Determination_. They were jealous…"

"That I got the _Enterprise_," Kirk finished, and Mitchell jabbed at his arm gently.

"That's right. Coming back?"

"Yeah."

It was, in all its vivid, messy glory, and he grinned. "Where'd they end up?" He looked around at his surroundings for the first time and recognized the very familiar Academy Sickbay—he'd spent more than his share of nights here back in his school days. The sterilized whites and blues were colors he'd come to hate, the steady beeping of the monitor above his head frequented his nightmares, and the fact that most of the nurses knew him on a first name basis was rather embarrassing.

Mitchell rubbed a hand through his dark hair, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Actually, they all walked out of here two and a half days ago. Their dignity was pretty battered and I hear their records were black-marked, but physically…"

"Oh." That was disappointing, but it was hardly ethical _or_ appropriate for a Starfleet Captain to show it. Mitchell seemed to understand anyway, but as befitting a Starfleet Commander, he followed Kirk's lead and chose to let the disappointment slide.

"Your Science Officer wasn't too happy with you."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Spock," Kirk said. "Why? I was defending him more than I was myself."

"He's a Vulcan, Jim."

"Yes, he is, Gary."

Mitchell shook his head. "He doesn't give a hoot about you defending his honor, Jim. No emotion. You exploded, but the whole time you were beating the crud outta those guys he was trying to hold you back. Too bad you didn't listen to him, or this mighta not happened."

"Thanks for the support."

Mitchell held up his hands defensively. "I was behind you one-hundred percent. But the Vulcan didn't appreciate it too much. He's come in a few times, but you haven't been awake. I'm supposed to 'inform him directly when you've regained consciousness'."

Kirk snorted at the bad impression, but the throbbing in his head had eased enough for him to be sufficiently concerned about the fact that he couldn't move.

"Gary, what's wrong with me?"

The amusement in Mitchell's eyes faded, and he gave a half-hearted shrug. "You're paralyzed."

Kirk felt momentary panic, but his training kicked in and replaced the fear immediately with a jumble of calculations, possible solutions, and questions for analysis. There were times he absolutely loved being a military man.

"What happened? And what's the diagnosis?"

"What happened? Some idiot got you from behind at point-blank range on heavy stun. One of the Academy clod's buddies. He's on military probation, by the way. Oh, and so are you. But it looks like you'll get off scot free, thanks to your strange Vulcan friend. You know, Jim, I just can't figure him out…"

"Gary. What's the diagnosis?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, about that…"

"Gary!"

Mitchell stood, rubbing his palms together. "Let me get a doctor. I don't know the details, though they said they'll be able to fix you, Jim. You were hurt pretty bad, though, and they're not real confident. They said the worst was that knock on your head; it might have caused some brain damage, but honestly, I don't know how they'd be able to tell…"

Kirk spluttered, and Mitchell fled, laughing.

He returned a few minutes later with two blue-coated doctors in tow, only one of whom Kirk recognized. He was a short, slight man with graying hair and an irritatingly friendly, open manner that Kirk found disturbing.

"Good to see you awake, James." Doctor Hawkins glanced at the monitors and made a few notes on the PADD he held in one hand, and then he chuckled jovially and _winked._ Mitchell snorted. "Or should I say _Captain?_"

"Captain will do," Kirk said, pressing his lips together in his favorite fake-smile. Mitchell snorted again, but Hawkins didn't notice. Over his shoulder, however, Kirk caught a glimpse of the other doctor's open amusement. Light blue eyes twinkled at him under a quirked brow, and he found himself smiling back until Hawkins stepped between them, fiddling with the controls on the side of Kirk's bed. It lifted slowly until he was sitting nearly upright, which was a considerable improvement. Hawkins plopped down on a hard-backed chair next to him and fixed him with what he probably imagined was a fatherly gaze. Mitchell made gagging motions over his head, and the new doctor turned an appreciative _ha_ of laughter into a sneeze.

"Bless you, Doctor," Hawkins said politely. "And now, James, about your condition. I have your report here, and I think I can get your mobility back one-hundred percent in no more than a week. How's that sound?"

"A week?" Kirk's mind raced frantically, calculating. "Doctor, my ship…"

"Ah, yes, you leave in a few days, is that right?" Hawkins shook his head firmly, but his eyes were genuinely sympathetic. "I'm sorry, James, but you're completely immobilized. Recovering completely will take at least a week. That was a nasty shock you took; it could have killed you, you know. You're very lucky."

Kirk bit his lip, straining at his fingertips, begging them to move, to obey. Mitchell was watching him, arms crossed. The other doctor was silent. Hawkins stood abruptly, and Kirk blinked. Was that it, then? An end date, but no treatment plans, no explanations, no alternatives? He was just about to protest when Hawkins spoke, tapping something out rapidly on the PADD and glancing back and forth from it to Kirk's monitor.

"I'm turning your case over to our newest trainee, James," he said. "He needs to get acquainted with the new machinery before he heads out on assignment. I'm sure you'll get along splendidly…and if you'll excuse me." He met Kirk's indignant eyes for a second, smiled, patted Kirk's unfortunately immobile arm fondly, and departed.

Kirk was left to fume silently with Mitchell while his new doctor conferred quietly with a passing nurse. Where was the logic in giving him a brand new medic when his ship, his _Enterprise_, was leaving in less than four days? As glad as he was to be rid of Hawkins, he needed someone competent, someone he could work with, not someone still wet-behind-the-ears.

"Not happy with Hawkins' choice, are you?" The Southern drawl startled him, and he looked up into those bright blue eyes and felt the redness creep up his neck.

"Am I that obvious?"

The doctor grinned. "I'm Leonard McCoy. And you are?"

"Jim Kirk."

The doctor's right eyebrow rose slowly. "Kirk, huh? _Enterprise_?"

"That's right."

"Fine place for her Captain to be, Sickbay," McCoy mused, glancing down at the PADD he held and tapping his stylus absently against the side. "She leaves in four days."

"Don't think I don't know that," Kirk nearly moaned, straining against the immobility of his own arms and legs again. "I've _got _to be out of here in four days, Doc. My superiors won't be impressed if we've got to delay her maiden voyage. There's got to be something…I can go out partially paralyzed if it comes down to it. Command won't like it, but if I'm kept stable…what are the odds that we'll run into difficulties on our first two days out there anyway? And keep your witty comments to yourself, Gary."

Mitchell raised both hands and shut his mouth again. McCoy smiled softly and rolled his shoulders back.

"Well, Jim Kirk, I don't rightly know that you deserve it; from what I hear, you got yourself into this mess. You should have to sit here for a week or more, but you're expecting me to fix you up in four. It'd take a miracle."

Kirk knew McCoy was right, but his natural tendency to butt up against obstacles won out, and his almost-attempt at humility failed miserably. But before he could get the heated words out, McCoy continued calmly. "I can get you out of here in three days, Captain. You do what I tell you to do, don't complain, and be a good boy and you should be ready to leave when your ship goes."

Kirk bristled at McCoy's complacent grin, but he was wise enough and impressed enough to know that _now_ was the time to back down and let the physician gloat.

"If you can do that, Doc," he said, "I'll keep you."

* * *

Review!


	3. Three

Just a quick note...this has not taken the direction I originally imagined, but I think it's gonna work. This chapter focuses more on Kirk than I ever expected, but again, I think it works, and I only hope I can pull this whole thing off. Thanks for your lovely reviews, all, and with your patience with only once-a-week posts. I'll try to keep them pretty regular like this.

* * *

**Three**

If Jim Kirk was expecting injections, pills, drugs, complicated, efficient machinery, and a painless recovery, he was sorely disappointed. Day one of the promised three brought no such modern miracles, but rather the infinitely more painful, old-fashioned _physical therapy_. Pushing, pulling, poking, rubbing, twisting, straining, and all manner of uncomfortable contortions that he swore had gone out of practice decades ago. When he complained to McCoy, the doctor only looked up from where he was orchestrating the movement of Kirk's legs and scowled.

"If you want to recover before your ship leaves," he said, "our modern medicine isn't going to do the trick. We've forgotten this kind of therapy, become lazy, caught up in machinery and potions. Your body doesn't need to be chemically stimulated—it just needs to be reminded of what it can do. What're you feeling?"

"Pain," Kirk said dryly.

"Good." McCoy returned to his bending, twisting, rubbing, and Kirk grimaced. White-hot prickles were dancing up and down his leg, and he glared at the top of the doctor's head, almost wishing Hawkins had decided to take his case after all.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you, McCoy?"

McCoy glanced up quickly, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "You aren't?"

"You're crazy."

"Look here, Captain Kirk. The fact that you're feeling anything at all is cause for celebration. If I'd injected you with a few drugs two hours ago, you still wouldn't be feeling a thing. Sure, it'd work, and it'd be a lot less painful. I might even be able to get you moving again relatively quickly with chemicals and formulas. But you'd be nowhere near top-form; you'd have to take another day or two to re-teach your body to walk. This way, by the time I get done with you in two days, you won't remember you've even been immobilized."

"_Two_ days, Doctor?"

McCoy looked up again, one eyebrow arched high. "Isn't that what I said?"

Kirk felt a slow grin creeping across his face. "I distinctly remember you telling me three."

McCoy ducked his head back down to his work, his gentle, firm hands bending Kirk's knee up and down, up and down. There was a hint of laughter in his slow drawl when he spoke again, and more than a hint of smugness. "Well, now, I reckon I calculated wrong the first time. Forgive a doctor his mistake, Captain. Can you move this leg on your own yet?"

Kirk shook his head, warmth blossoming in his chest at the thought of one less day in this Sickbay, willed his muscles to move, and was more than a little surprised when the leg twitched and rose a few inches off the mattress. McCoy dusted his hands together and straightened.

"Reckon that's enough for now. Let's do your arms again."

As he moved up the cot, Kirk was struck with sudden curiosity. "Where are you headed, Doc?" he asked.

"The _Constitution_," McCoy replied gruffly. "Planet-side mission to Capella IV. Why?"

Kirk shrugged, was momentarily pleased that he had managed the lift of his shoulders, and said, "Curiosity."

McCoy's hands worked on Kirk's limp, now tingling right arm deftly, carefully, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere. His bottom lip protruded slightly, forehead creased. He caught Kirk watching him and shook his head.

"Sorry, Captain. I was…remembering…something."

"Didn't look like a very pleasant memory."

"It wasn't anything important." He looked about to say more, but apparently decided against it and only shook his head again. "Nothing important. Lift this arm."

Kirk suppressed his curiosity with some difficulty and did so, grunting with the effort, wincing at the pain, and McCoy smacked his shoulder lightly. "There, see? I reckon you're ready for some help." His hands flew across the small mobile table he had brought with him, skillfully preparing a hypo full of a light golden liquid. "Now, this might cause some prickling sensations," he warned. "But it shouldn't hurt. It'll stimulate your body a little so it can respond to what you've been telling it. It'll also help to relax some of your muscles so they won't be so sore when you start really moving again." He pressed the hypo lightly against Kirk's shoulder and injected the liquid with a soft hiss; immediately, light, pleasant tingling spread from the place of injection all the way down his body and into his legs and arms.

McCoy replaced the hypo on the cart and rubbed his hands together again, the smile returning to his face. "Ready for some more stimulation?" He laughed at Kirk's exaggerated groan but ignored the implications and moved around to the Captain's other side.

"Well, what's this?"

Gary Mitchell had arrived, hands thrust into his jacket pockets, head cocked to one side inquisitively. He dragged the chair next to the nearest cot closer and sprawled into it, watching with open amusement. McCoy spared him only a glance, one eyebrow raised, and then retreated into silence. Kirk rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

"Thank the stars, Gary," he said loudly. "I'm being tortured."

Mitchell blinked slowly. "What's going on? Is this some kind of witch doctor voodoo-ism I'm seeing? Physical therapy?"

McCoy shot Mitchell the iciest glare Kirk had ever seen, and even the ever-cocky, ever-laughing Mitchell looked a little intimidated. He brushed it off with an awkward laugh and a wide-eyed _what-did-I-say_ look at Kirk, but Kirk was only grateful that _he _wasn't on the other end of that glower. McCoy said nothing, however, and Kirk cleared his throat and took it upon himself to answer.

"Two days, Gary. We'll be on our way on schedule."

"Two days, eh? Well, if the voodoo works," Mitchell said. He seemed to have had no trouble regaining his confidence, and his eyes sparkled as he shot a covert glance at the doctor. McCoy obviously noticed the dig, but he chose to ignore it. His jaw had tightened, but Kirk was getting vibes more along the lines of _arrogant little turd_ than_ if you don't scram _now _I'll make sure you're the one needing physical therapy…_for which Kirk was marginally grateful. He had no doubt that the good doctor armed with the right hypo was a fair match for even the physically fit, golden-boy Gary Mitchell.

"Move that arm."

Kirk did, and was pleased to see that he could lift it higher than he had the other moments before. McCoy nodded in satisfaction and fiddled with the knobs on the side of the bio-bed until it folded slowly upward, lifting Kirk to a sitting position. "Talk with your mouthy friend for a bit, give your muscles a rest," he said abruptly. "I'll be back in an hour, and we'll see what your mobility is like."

He strode away down the ward, and Mitchell twisted to watch him go. He whistled softly and clicked his tongue sympathetically. "Excellent bedside manner."

"I don't think he appreciated your witch doctor comment," Kirk said dryly. "_We_ get along fine."

"Good for you. Hey, listen, Jim, I've just been up on the _Enterprise_. I talked to your Science Officer for a bit, and he wants to come see you. He said he'd be down here in _two point four_ hours. You know…" he leaned a little closer and spoke in an exaggerated whisper, "I don't think he likes me much, either."

Kirk snorted. "You rub him in all the wrong ways, Gary. I'm not surprised."

Mitchell smirked. "You sure you're gonna be able to handle him for five years?"

"It's not me I'm worried about," Kirk said. "You sure _you'll_ manage working on the same Bridge? Or do I have to fire one of you?"

"Well, if you're giving me the option…"

Kirk grinned but shifted uncomfortably. "Joking aside, I want you to get along. I won't have my Bridge crew fall apart because my First doesn't like my CSI. You and I, we've been friends for a long time, but…"

"Jim, don't worry about it," Mitchell interrupted. "I might not like him much now, but who knows? You're right, it'll be hard to escape each other. I'll tone it down, all right? No, listen, I'll make you a deal. I'll be nice to your Vulcan friend if you'll get him to loosen up a little. His eyebrow drives me nuts."

Kirk rolled his shoulder back and flopped his right hand limply and Mitchell snickered at the weak attempt. "I'll see what I can do. He's new to me too, you know. I don't know what to make of him either. But he's supposed to be the best Science Officer in the fleet, so he can't be all bad."

"Being a good Science Officer doesn't give him an automatic "A" in the personality department," Mitchell said. "But I'll give it a shot, all right? At any rate, he's coming down here pretty soon, so I'd better go. I think I've pressed my luck enough today as it is. I hear that Vulcan Pinch thing they do is nasty, and if he sees me again I might end up in the bed next to ya." He stood, pushing back his chair, and clapped Kirk on the shoulder. "See you around. Good luck with the Doc. And the Vulcan. What would you do without me?"

"Promote Spock to First and invite my doctor to join us as Science Officer."

Mitchell groaned loudly enough to draw the affronted attention of a passing nurse. "That hurts, Jim."

"Get outta here," Kirk drawled, and Mitchell winked, saluted, and sauntered away. Kirk watched him go, half amused, half seriously concerned about the explosive dynamics he was about to place on the Bridge of his new ship. He rolled his head from side to side, experimenting idly with his limb movement, and was just drifting off into an easy doze when McCoy appeared suddenly over his head. Kirk closed his eyes tighter.

"Maybe if I pretend I'm asleep, you'll go away," he muttered.

"And maybe if I go away you'll be stuck here on earth when the _Enterprise_ leaves orbit," McCoy said. "Buck up, Captain. In two days you'll be outta here and on your way to other galaxies. Do me a favor and make sure you take your friend with you."

"Not a fan of his brand of wit, are you, McCoy?"

McCoy grunted, but there was a spark of good humor in his face. He rubbed a hand across his face and through his hair, twisting a scanner around and around in his other hand. "I want to go through another round of stimulation," he said. Kirk glared, and he was met with a return glare that he was fairly certain blew his out of the water, though it was nowhere near close to the death-stare the doctor had given Mitchell. "That's quite enough of that," McCoy said. "The man you see in front of you is Supreme Authority in this ward, and I'll have none of your Captain snark."

"Why Mr. Spock, I had no idea you were in command here," Kirk said.

McCoy's eyes looked heavenward. "More visitors. And you want me to get you out of here in two days? If I don't get some peace around here you'll be lucky if you get out in two weeks!" He turned to face the newcomer, blue eyes fairly sparking with irritation, and his active eyebrow nearly jumped off his face. "And you are?"

The sedate, neatly uniformed Vulcan in front of him clasped both hands behind his back and nodded his head minutely. "I am Spock, Science Officer aboard the _Enterprise_. I presume that you are Doctor McCoy."

"That's right," McCoy growled. "And this is your Captain that _I've _got to get in working order before you take that ship out of orbit in three days, so if you'll excuse me…"

"I will not take more than a few minutes of your time," Mr. Spock interrupted smoothly. "I request a moment alone with Captain Kirk."

McCoy threw up his hands in disgust. "As you wish, Mr. Spock. Take a few minutes. Take as long as you want! I'll be in the lab when you're through, if you'll be so kind as to inform me when I can get back to tending my own patient."

"I shall do so," Spock said. As McCoy turned and stormed away for the second time, muttering vague obscenities under his breath, Spock turned to watch him go with one eyebrow slightly lifted as if to mock the retreating physician. Kirk wondered for a brief moment what it was about this tall, slim, intimidating Vulcan officer that clashed with so many of the people he got along with, when he himself had liked his Science Officer immensely from the moment they had met. He was momentarily grateful that McCoy had not been assigned to the _Enterprise_—what a ship-ful _that _would have made. Mitchell at odds with Science and Medical, McCoy at odds with Science and Navigation, Spock at odds with no one but disliked by all, and he, Kirk, somehow stuck as mediator between the three. It was enough to start a headache right then and there, and he dismissed the thought and focused on the dark, direct face in front of him.

"Yes, Mr. Spock, at ease," he said. "Take a seat."

"Sir," Spock said, and slid gracefully into the seat that Mitchell had abandoned, placing both hands calmly in his lap and again looking directly at Kirk. "I have come to discuss the events leading up to your incarceration in this ward," he said. "I realize that you were not provoked to initiate the…_brawl_ that occurred two days ago until my name and lineage were insulted. I find it…"

"Mr. Spock, there's no need to thank me," Kirk said hastily, twitching a hand limply again. "I would do it for any of my crew. And don't get the impression that I did it all out of a sense of honor, either. It was my fault as much as theirs; I should have exercised more control. It was no way to behave as a Starship Captain, and I apologize for the less than satisfactory first impression I must have given you."

He was surprised by the words coming so easily from his mouth—he didn't think he'd ever apologized so easily and quickly before, or with such sincerity. He realized in the brief moment before Spock replied that he cared deeply about what this Officer thought of him, and realized in the same moment that he was slightly in awe of his CSI. The thought was difficult to wrap his mind around—he'd never even been in awe of any CO except perhaps Captain Garrovick, much less one below him in rank. He'd respected, trusted, liked, before, but around no one else did he remember feeling the need to impress because he wanted to be liked rather than because he wanted to be recognized. The last thought that raced across his mind was _I'm a cocky bugger_.

"I had no intention of thanking you, Captain," Spock said bluntly, and Kirk blinked in surprise. "Though I realize that that is, indeed, the proper human response." Something in his face twitched uncomfortably, though it remained smooth and impassive. "And so in light of your sacrifice, however illogical, I…thank you."

Kirk knew enough of the Vulcan people to get the idea that Spock had just done something completely out of character. At the mention of the word "illogical", he wondered why he had even thought to presume that Spock was thanking him. He covered his embarrassment with the first words that came to mind.

"If you didn't come to thank me, what _did _you come here for?"

Spock seemed even more uncomfortable now. "Forgive me if I have caused offence, Captain. I have meant none. I came only to seek after your well-being."

_What do we do to each other? _Kirk wondered, and he shook his head.

"Forget it, Mr. Spock. Thank you. I'm doing as well as can be expected. Doctor McCoy expects me to be up and about in two days."

"That is very well," Spock said courteously. "I am pleased that you will suffer no long-term effects."

"Thank you."

There was an awkward silence, and Kirk had just begun to rack his brains for something else to say when the silence was shattered by an irritated, sarcastic drawl that echoed halfway up the ward.

"Your few minutes are up, Mr. Spock. And if you'd be so kind as to remove yourself from my Sickbay, I'd be more than happy to get myself back to recovering your Captain."

Spock stood quickly, all dignity, and turned to face the shorter, pale-faced doctor who was clutching the same scanner in one fist so tightly that his knuckles were white.

"I believe that that would be most productive," he said. "Captain Kirk, I place my full confidence in your recovery." He nodded deferentially and then turned and retraced the doctor's steps up the room. His departure was as abrupt as his arrival, and Kirk felt slightly dazed. McCoy clattered around the bio-bed, muttering to himself, scowling at nothing, and Kirk felt it best to let him continue without disruption. Only brief moments had passed before the doctor's angry movements had quieted, and when he finally made eye contact with Kirk, he seemed relatively calm and even contrite.

"Vulcans," he said gruffly. "They rub me the wrong way."

Despite his roused curiosity, the echo of Kirk's statement to Mitchell struck Kirk as oddly funny, and as tired as he was, as confused and bizarre as Spock's visit had made him feel, and as apprehensive as he was about this next round of therapy, he could only laugh.

McCoy did not share his amusement.

* * *

A few quick notes. The referenced Captain Garrovick is from the episode "Obsession", in which Kirk talks about his first commission on the _Farragut_. As far as Mitchell goes, I'm trying to keep him in character (as little as we know), and his dislike of Spock in this piece is inspired by the way he talks to Spock in "Where No Man Has Gone Before", where I've always got the impression that they don't really get along. But that's about it. Review, please; feedback is my best friend!


	4. Four

I'm so ashamed...forgive the enormous lapse between this chapter and the last. I won't make excuses, except that school and my hectic personal life got in the way...ok, that was an excuse. I'm sorry. For all those that have stuck with this, thanks a million, I hope it's worth it (though I haven't even gone over it, so there might be some major mistakes...oops), and I hope that the next chapter will come more quickly (though I'm not promising anything) AND with a definite upswing in the action. I'm pretty excited.

* * *

**Four**

Two days later, McCoy stood next to an empty bio-bed, turning his favorite scanner over and over in his fist, watching James T. Kirk stride slowly, stiffly, but steadily away. He knew that he wasn't blinking, was hardly breathing, was irritated as heck that he was feeling so empty and abandoned, but didn't have the motivation to rouse himself. He raised a hand when Kirk turned at the far door, twisting his neck stiffly as he looked back for a final salute, but the smile on his face was painfully forced. Kirk lifted a hand in return, and then he was gone, and McCoy was left staring at an empty doorway, a black part of his heart whispering that he shouldn't have cured the man so blasted quickly.

He turned back to the bio-bed and straightened one wrinkled corner of the absently, smoothing it again and again with gentle strokes of his free hand. His other still turned the scanner around, flipping it back and forth, rubbing it with his thumb, hearing it click softly against the ring on his little finger. His mind was blank, which was odd, but that dark part of his heart had melted into hurt and a sense of loss that he couldn't explain to himself. It wasn't logical, after all, to feel as if he had lost a friend when he'd only known the man for a few days.

But since when was he a logical man? One side of his mouth cracked upward into a derisive smile. He was the last person on earth he'd call logical. Jocelyn would have agreed. His fits of passion—both positive and negative—had been constantly at odds with her cool-headed rationalism. He wasn't sure now why they'd ever worked, and wondered sometimes if they really ever had.

But thinking about Jocelyn was still painful, and footsteps approaching from behind him were a welcome reprieve from what was feeling like a dangerous spiral into a horrible, no-good, terribly bad afternoon. He turned, slipping the scanner discreetly into the pocket of his medical tunic.

"Doctor McCoy."

"Yes, sir."

It was Hawkins, and he looked furious. McCoy's threatening depression transformed gleefully into anticipation of a good tangle.

"I have just been informed that you've released your patient."

"That's correct."  
"Might I ask why?"

McCoy instructed his brain to freeze his eyebrow despite its begging to lift off his face and tucked his hands neatly behind his back. "I declared him fit to return to duty, Doctor. He has regained full mobility with no negative side-effects…"

"Impossible," Hawkins snapped. "Absolutely impossible. You were outside your jurisdiction to release him without letting me see him first."

"Pardon me, sir, but I was under the impression that the records indicated that you had turned his case over to me. Under Starfleet regulations, that makes me the only authority needed to release James Kirk from this hospital."

"You are not licensed…"

"I believe I am, sir…" Hawkins bristled, but McCoy didn't allow him the chance to speak. "…as of this morning." He tapped the insignia on his chest, and though a part of him was sure he was acting childish, the strange red flush creeping up Hawkins' hairline was worth it. "It's official. Seeing as I've been promoted to Starfleet medico, though the James Kirk case was given me as a trainee all cases granted in the past are now solely under my jurisdiction. I am under no obligations to inform anyone of my decision to release him. I declared him fit. He left. And that, sir, is the end of it."

"I am still your superior officer!"

"And for that reason, Doctor, the decent thing to do would have been to inform you of my decision. Would you believe me if I told you it had slipped my mind? No? Well, I wouldn't believe it either." McCoy was getting a little fed up with the incompetency before him, and his obvious dominance in this little verbal duel was boring him. Where was the fun in arguing when there was no competition?

"Under whose authority…"

"I reported my decision to the shift supervisor. He cleared it. I cleared Kirk. No other authority is necessary, unless I'm missing a page or two in the regulation handbook?"

Hawkins looked down at his omnipresent PADD as if it would tell him the answer. He was apparently disappointed, because he sniffed, glared back up at McCoy, and snapped, "Next time you clear a patient, I want to see him first. Especially when you've released him _five days_ _ahead of schedule_. Am I understood?"

McCoy's eyebrow unfroze without warning, but he covered with a deferential (albeit sarcastic) bow of the head. "Understood, sir."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you've jeopardized the entire mission of the _Enterprise_ with your overhasty actions, Doctor McCoy. I can only hope that Captain Kirk's own medical crew is capable of correcting the damage before it is too late."

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode importantly away, leaving McCoy staring incredulously after him.

"Cheap shot," he muttered. "Incompetent idiot."

He was determined to be in a terrible mood for the remainder of the day, but with the call to prepare to board the _Constitution_, they were leaving the sector nearly two weeks early, he was kept far too busy to remember. The whirlwind of the next two days even allowed him to forget that they were now leaving on the same day as the _Enterprise_. It crossed his mind once, as he was hauling his few bags to a transporter facility to have them beamed up to the _Consititution_, and he was momentarily satisfied that a little of the pomp would be taken from _Enterprise_'s lofty sails with the departure of another vessel at the same time.

_Enterprise_ left on schedule, mid-morning, her sleek silver bulk gleaming on viewscreens across earth. McCoy watched from the conference room in which he stood back to back with his two-hundred fellow _Constitution_ crewmembers as her engines slowly powered, nacelles brightening, and then she was gone in a burst of ceremonial stardust and recorded screams of delight and good wishes. He looked away as the bright, dancing eyes and pseudo-serious face of the young Captain Kirk filled the screen with a replay of his departure speech, the old disappointment still twisting in his gut even as his own Captain stood at the front of the room and the speakers abruptly silenced the rich, inspirational sound of James Kirk's voice.

His Captain was a middle-aged woman, with tight curly brown hair pulled up into a bun at the crown of her head and a soft, delicate voice. She was a first-time Captain, and pleased and honored to have been selected to this vitally important mission to Capella IV. She was confident in her ability, confident in her crew, and confident that they would be successful. As McCoy listened to her, it clicked. _This _was his commission, _this _was how he would be leaving behind his old life, and _this_ was his focus. His eyes flickered almost involuntarily back to the silent viewscreen, where Kirk was just finishing his triumphant speech with golden eyes gleaming and a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. The energy he conducted, without sound, without words, was infectious, and McCoy let out a long, low sigh. He ignored the concerned glance tossed his direction by a doctor standing to his right, and with conscious resolution returned his gaze to the front, to the gentle but commanding speech of Captain Rosewell.

And he finally let the _Enterprise_ go.

* * *

He was still shaking as he walked into his small quarters down the corridor from Sickbay, wiping sweaty palms on his starched black pants. His roommate was already there, a young blonde doctor who greeted him with a wide, toothy smile who had already claimed the bed nearest the door. McCoy assumed that this was a kindness, as the partition that divided the room halfway across afforded it a little privacy. The other doctor—the only other on board excepting himself and the CMO, from what McCoy understood—was hanging up his few civilian clothes in the small closet opposite his bed.

"I'm Paul Runford," he said, intercepting McCoy's attempted passage with a large hand. McCoy shook it briefly and grunted, "Leonard McCoy", before crossing to the far side of the room, where his bags were placed neatly at the foot of the bed. He sat down at the foot and examined his surroundings while Runford eyed him covertly from the front half of the room.

"Small, isn't it?" he observed. McCoy grunted again. Runford looked concerned.

"You all right?"

McCoy nodded, a little embarrassed. "I'm fine."

Runford smiled in what he probably thought was an understanding manner. "First time with a transporter?"

McCoy glared, and Runford's smile decayed. The young doctor returned to his unpacking with fervor, and McCoy wiped his hands on his pants again and crossed to the sink positioned between their two beds on the opposite wall. He glanced at his pale face in the mirror with disgust and twisted the knob, sending cool the water splashing across his hands. He wiped them across his face, scrubbed it dry with the towel hanging to the side, and rubbed his hands together briskly. Ignoring the lingering nausea was the best way to handle it, he decided, and strode the two strides back to his sleeping area to unpack.

Runford snored. The thin wall separating their beds was nowhere thick enough to block the sound; it permeated every corner of the room, and bored through McCoy's pillow, setting his teeth on edge with every strangled inhalation. When the digital pad on his bookshelf read 1400 hours without a minute's sleep, he got up and padded silently across the room, stuck his tongue out at the sprawled limbs and gaping mouth that was Runford, pulled on his boots, and slipped out into the corridor.

Ship's night was dim, and the corridor from his room to Sickbay was empty. The door slid open with an audible _shhhwii_ and he stepped inside to the smell of sterile floors and hospital linen. The young night nurse was nodding at her desk, her dark brown hair falling lopsidedly out of its pins, and he slipped past her without disturbing her doze. The dim Sickbay felt different this late at night than it had earlier, when the new Medico had been given their grand tour. It had taken a total of ten minutes to show them the entire place; two separate rooms lined with bio-beds, three labs, a few offices, the laundry, a small library, and an equipment closet, all manned by three doctors and nine nurses. McCoy rather liked the smallness of it compared to the massive facility at Starfleet Academy, and even more he liked the fact that he was all but in command. His CO was an older, graying gentleman with a likeable enough personality and a brain a dozen times larger than Hawkins'.

He perched himself on the end of one of the bio-beds and drew one knee up to his chest, interlocking his fingers around it and rocking slowly back and forth. Already, he missed Earth. He missed Joanna. He missed the comfort of soil and the smell of green things, and the warmth of the sun or the gentle caress of the wind. He missed feeling that he belonged somewhere. His few weeks at the Academy had hardly been enough time for him to feel comfortable with the new atmosphere, and before that it had been months since he'd felt entirely comfortable in his own home, facing his crumbling marriage.

And now here, on board the ship that was to be his home for only two weeks until they arrived at Capella IV, he felt awkward and unsettled.

"Give it time, McCoy," he growled out loud. "It's only your first day, for the love of…"

"Sir?" The night nurse had woken, and was peering around the door at him with large, dark, bleary eyes. "Can I help you with something, Doctor?"

McCoy stood. "No. I'm sorry, Nurse. It wasn't my intention to disturb you."

The nurse smiled. "Not at all. I guess I shouldn't have been sleeping, anyways. I should thank you for waking me up."

McCoy gestured around at the empty Sickbay. "I see no reason for you to be awake."

"It's my shift…"

"I won't report you," he interrupted gallantly. "I'd be asleep now too, if it weren't for…well, outside circumstances."

The nurse nodded understandingly. "Being out in space does take getting used to."

_Well, not quite_. But he nodded vaguely and rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Well," he said. "It's past time for my old bones to be tucked away in bed. Nurse…?"

"Angela. Angela Rhead," she said quickly, holding out a hand automatically. He grasped it gently, and she returned the grip with gratifying firmness. "And you're Doctor McCoy."

"That's right."

"I'll be stationed with you on Capella IV," she said. "I've been assigned to be your assistant."

McCoy cocked an eyebrow. "Then it's very good to meet you, Miss Rhead. I'm sure I'll see more of you."

"I believe you will, Doctor. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He returned to his quarters, and as the door opened the sound of a miniature earthquake assaulted his ears. He pulled off his boots, glared at the large lump under the thin standard-issue blanket, and collapsed onto his own cot, pulling his pillow back over his head in a futile attempt for quiet.

It was a very long night.

* * *

They reached Capella IV thirteen days later, and McCoy transported down to the surface with nothing but the bare essentials and a satchel full of medical equipment and drugs. The planet was hot and humid, and he was greeted by several seven-foot giants wearing bright ceremonial robes and scowls.

As he and Angela Rhead were escorted through the city of large, multi-colored tents that would be their home for the next two months, he looked skyward where the _Constitution_ would be leaving orbit. As out-of-place as he still felt on board, at least he had become familiar with his surroundings. He had even learned to sleep through Runford's snoring and wake in the morning without a headache.

He glanced sideways at the assistant that had become a tentative friend, and she looked back, her nervous excitement palpable. He grinned crookedly at her, tucked his satchel absently under his arm, and stuck his right hand into his pocket to finger his worn scanner gently. It was the only piece of equipment he had taken with him from his private practice, and here, on this strange, barren planet, it felt like a piece of home.

* * *

If you're still reading this, review! And I promise that the next chapter will return to some Kirk, the Enterprise, action, medical issues, and the works. Promise.


	5. Five

Wow. So here's my little nod to the power of reviews. I realize that it's been over a year since I've been on , and I had decided to abandon this story despite my promise at the beginning to finish it. Terrible of me, I know. But it's been over a year and I am _still_ getting reviews asking me to finish this fic. So finally, after what felt like the millionth kick in the pants with yet another review notification in my inbox, I decided to pull it out and keep writing. It took me forever to finish this chapter, which I started last year and just finished today, but here it is. So with that, if there are any major plot gaps or minor issues, please let me know so that I can fix them. I tried to find the continuity, but I guess you'll be the judge with how I did!

If you're still with this story, I'm both incredibly surprised and incredibly flattered. Thanks, all, for getting me writing again with your lovely reviews.

**-Emrose**

* * *

**Five**

The Capellans were hospitable enough, but they would accept none of McCoy's offers to establish a viable medical system on their planet. Only the strong should survive, they said. Medical help or hospitals were out of the question. McCoy explained, argued, pleaded, cajoled, and bribed until his face was as blue as his uniform, but nothing he could say or do would convince the natives of Capella IV to take what the Federation was offering. So one morning, two weeks past two months of being planet-side, he and Angela Rhead packed up their few belongings and prepared to leave the camp.

"A pity you could not stay longer."

McCoy inclined his head respectfully, bobbing a little on his heels.

"Your hospitality has been most appreciated, Akaar," he said. "On behalf of the Federation, we thank you for your kindness."

The Teer was an ageing, noble figure, but though he acknowledged their gratitude with little more than a short nod, his grown nephew, the next in line for leadership, with whom McCoy had forged a tentative acquaintance, sent them a brief smile behind his uncle's back. McCoy returned the smile a little bitterly—he had hoped that the Teer's nephew would have proven to be an ally in their cause. But he had turned out to be just as firmly rooted in his ideals as the rest of the Capellans—medicine had no place on their world.

"Perhaps we will meet again," Akaar said. McCoy thumped his right fist to his chest and thrust it outward, opening his palm upward in the traditional farewell. Beside him, Rhead mimicked the movement.

"Perhaps we will," he said gruffly. With one last nod, he and Rhead turned to go, back out into the hot morning sunlight and then upwards to cold, dark space. He was dreading his return to the _Constitution_—as irritating as the Capellans refusal for medical aid had been, he had grown fond of their simple lifestyle. This place, here among potentially dangerous, uninterested humanoids, had felt become more like home than he believed the _Constitution_ would ever be. And then there was the uncertainty of where he would be sent from here. It had never been clear just where he would go after his mission on Capella IV was complete, and if he were honest with himself, he had no desire to stay on the _Constitution_ as Assistant CMO. After being his own master for two months, the thought of returning to someone else's Sickbay was distasteful.

_Give it a fighting chance, McCoy_, he reminded himself. He pushed aside the heavy drapery and held it back for Rhead to exit the Teer's tent first and then followed her out. Ever since he had received the message that the _Constitution_ would soon be back in orbit he had been quoting those words at himself multiple times a day. And now here the time was up, and he hadn't yet managed to convince himself.

"I think I'll miss this place, Doc," Rhead whispered. She stumbled a little as they wound their way up the craggy landscape to the beam-up point, and he caught her arm firmly, surprised to see tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes. She caught him looking and shook her head briskly. "I shouldn't cry. I've missed the _Constitution_, too, you know…it'll be good to be back in space. Really, it will." A tear escaped and slid halfway down her cheek before she brushed it away impatiently. "It's just like…like going home after a wonderful vacation. You're sad…sad to leave, but…it's even better to be back where you belong."

"Sound like you're trying to convince yourself, darlin'," McCoy drawled. She laughed, and he nudged her shoulder gently. "That's better."

He himself felt no urge to cry, but he as they reached the flat, broad bluff from which the _Constitution_ would catch them up to the dark, cold freedom of space, he looked out over the broad, sunny plains and peaks of Capella IV and felt the sudden desire to run screaming back down the mountain. He squashed the impulse, chastised himself for his sentimentalism and turned to their scowling escorts.

"We take leave with open hearts and hands," he said. "May we return and be welcomed."

They did not reply, but they struck their chests and saluted him in the proper manner and then turned to leave, swallowing the path in huge strides that soon took them out of sight.

"I'm not sure they liked us too much," Rhead said. She set her bag down gently on the rocky path and turned her body away from him, absently following the curve of a mountain with her eyes. "They never seemed very warm."

"I think it's their culture," McCoy said. "Don't take it personally."

"Oh, I don't," Rhead said. "But it makes it a little easier to leave, knowing that we'll be back with our own crew…"

McCoy almost groaned out-loud, but caught himself and pasted a smile on his face as Rhead turned back to face him. "Sure," he said easily. Back to sharing a room with a junior doctor, back to snoring and sleepless nights, back to the headaches and the jibes about transporters. He clasped his hands behind his back and hoped he was doing a good enough job at fooling his young companion, but she hadn't seemed to notice his apprehensions.

"Thanks, Doctor," she said suddenly. Taken by surprise, for a second he just looked at her earnest, open face and felt a rush of affection.

"For what, exactly?" he asked.

"For not letting me feel homesick. For keeping my mind off the _Constitution_. You did such a good job of making me feel home here that now I don't want to leave!" Her cheeks were coloring rapidly, but she maintained eye contact with McCoy. "So thank you. You've been wonderful here, you know. I know we didn't really accomplish anything, but I learned a lot. I guess what I'm trying to say, is…" she struggled for a moment, cheeks bright red, eyes hot with embarrassment, and McCoy took pity on her.

"The pleasure was mine," he said. He reached out and clasped her shoulder gently. "Thank you for making my time here a little more enjoyable."

Rhead smiled weakly and he let go. She turned away again and McCoy gave her the privacy, pretending that couldn't hear her sniffles. She was a talented nurse, he thought, but more than that she reminded him a lot of his own daughter. The same gentle spirit, the same affinity for keeping a situation calm, the same insecurities that they both hid so well. The same emotionalism; though, he thought ruefully, Joanna's came out in flares of temper, like his. Rhead tended to let her passions out through tears.

_ Don't worry, Jo,_ he sent up quickly, glancing heavenward. _ I haven't replaced you. But I think you could be friends, you know. Maybe someday I'll get to introduce you. She's about your same age, and she picks up things quick, just like you. I miss you, sweetheart._

McCoy slipped his hand almost unconsciously into the pocket of his slacks to finger his scanner. The sniffles behind him had calmed, and he turned to strike up another conversation when faint, familiar chiming to his left stopped him cold. He turned and saw the beginnings of golden shimmer several meters distant, gathering into one, two, three, four distinct shapes, and thought, _run_. He whipped around, grabbed the startled nurse roughly by the arm, brutally dragged her to a large outcropping of mossy mountain a short distance away and shoved her down. She was gasping in surprise and pain, and he loosened his grip guiltily.

"Quiet," he hissed gently. "Someone's out there."

"I know, I heard," she whispered. "Who do you think…"

He hushed her, heart pounding loudly inside his chest, mind racing. As far as he knew, the _Constitution_ was the only Federation vessel authorized in this sector until the mission was complete.

_You haven't been contacted, have you?_ he mouthed at Rhead. She shook her head, eyes large, and he cursed under his breath. He'd always prided himself for his quick, almost-always-accurate intuition, and though he'd be the first to admit that he wasn't always level-headed because of it, he was willing to bet money now that whoever had beamed down were _not _from the _Constitution_.

Heavy footfalls and the harsh, guttural Klingon language confirmed the worst. The Klingons had been on and off planet two or three times since they had been there, but McCoy and Rhead had managed to avoid contact. The Capellans dealt with them much the same way that they had dealt with the medico…detached and uninterested, but hospitable. McCoy knew that the planet was rich with topeline, a valuable mining material that the Klingons had been interested in ever since it had been discovered, but he also knew that he Capellans were uninterested in selling mining rights. Now, it seemed, the Klingons were back for another try.

The tramping footfalls faded away down the hillside, but McCoy waited for a few moments longer to be sure, motioned to Rhead to stay put, and crept out from behind the crop of rock, heart still pounding. The bluff was deserted, and he flipped open his communicator as Rhead slipped up behind him.

"McCoy to _Constitution_. Come in."

After what seemed an eternal pause, the baritone of the Constitution's communication officer crackled over the speaker.

_"Constitution here. Ready to beam you up, Doctor. We've sighted a Klingon vessel in orbit. We're on red alert."_

"We've seen a landing party," McCoy said. "Four of them. They're on their way down to the village. Are you sure it's safe…"  
_"The Captain would rather have you aboard, Doctor. They're not yet in range….it's safe to lower our shields if we do it now. Are you ready?"_

"We're ready. McCoy out." McCoy snapped the communicator shut and jammed it onto his hip, teeth grinding. The unspoken _we'd rather have you on board just in case it gets nasty and we need a surgeon_ was ringing loudly in his ears, and a quick glance at Rhead told him she was thinking the same thing.

Familiar chimes, and then he was grabbed up and whirled away, the sunshine and mountains melting all around him, sucked into the blaring sirens and cold danger that awaited.

They stepped off the transporter pad to the whine of red alert, and a harried looking transporter engineer waved them aside, fingers flying across the panel as he shut the console down. He jammed a thumb at the comm unit and barked, "I have medical personnel aboard. Resume shields."

"_Copy,"_ said the Bridge, and the engineer's shoulders visibly slumped in relief. "They're just out of phaser range," he explained. "Captain was cutting it close, beaming you up. But I think she figured it was safer to have you on board, just in case."

"I figured as much," McCoy said dryly. "I do believe we should adjourn to Sickbay, Nurse…"

The ship shuddered with the first barrage from the Klingon vessel. Sirens stuttered, the engineer swore, and McCoy stumbled into Rhead, grabbed at her to stop her from tumbling over, and righted himself with his own grunted curse. The comm unit whistled.

_"Doctor, you're wanted in Sickbay."_

McCoy Rhead's hand with one of his own and reached reflexively for his medkit with the other. "Let's go."

* * *

An hour later the ship was hell. Sickbay was a nightmare of screaming monitors, groans of pain, hissing hyposprays, the stench of sweat and dust and the coppery taste of blood. McCoy had never felt grimmer or more afraid. He bent over one body, then the next, offering a hand there, a word there, a merciful oblivion with a gentle hypospray there. He set a broken leg, extracted a shard of wall from a stomach, patched a split skull, administered drugs for several concussions, sutured a head wound, wrapped broken ribs…the rows of crewmen stretched out on the cots, on the floor, sagging against the walls, seemed endless. His hands were coated in the blood of dozens of casualties, his silky surgical tunic spattered red, too much red.

The few times he had paused for a split second to take in the chaos, Rhead had been there, bending over the next patient, deftly administering a hypospray, hauling supplies from one end of Sickbay to the other. Her face was red, hairline glistening with sweat, but her eyes were bright and clear, and she had even tossed a gentle, encouraging smile at him whenever she caught his eye before disappearing into the fray again. She appeared at his elbow once, handing him a glass of water he hadn't known he'd needed and he'd thanked her breathlessly.

"You're quite the nurse, Ms. Rhead," he said. She laughed, and there was a note of fear in her voice that hadn't translated to her body language.

"I just wanted to thank you, Doc, for everything. If we don't make it…"

He put a bloody hand firmly on her shoulder, other fist still clutching the scanner he'd been using on the unconscious patient in front of him. "Not making it is not an option. We'll pull through. Don't be afraid of that, hon."

She smiled sadly at him, and he knew that she wasn't convinced. But she nodded, shifted the stack of clean linens under one arm and gestured with the empty water glass in the other. "I'll bring more when I get the chance. You doctors need as much taking care of as the patients do."

"Nonsense," he started to say, but she was gone, ducking around a yelling, hypospray brandishing Doctor Runford without a backward glance.

_"Bridge to Sickbay," _came the Captain's voice, and McCoy thought _she's scared to death_. _"How does it look down there, Doctor?"_

Two cots down from McCoy's current patient, CMO Dawson leapt to the comm unit and thumbed it, shouting to be heard above the noise. "We're in a bloody war zone, Captain! Half the crew's been through here; we don't have enough equipment to handle all the casualties. Respectfully requesting that you _get us out of here!_"

_"Understood, Doctor. Our warp speed capabilities are limited—engineering is doing their best to get them back on board. I needn't say that our situation is critical...we're doing all we can. Captain out."_

Dawson shook his head bitterly. "I just hope our best is enough," he said. His eyes met McCoy's through the tangle of human bodies and medical equipment, and as yet another tremor shook Sickbay a mutual understanding passed between them. _We're not getting out of this one_.

* * *

"I'm getting a distress signal from the Cappellan system, Captain."

Jim Kirk swung around to face his Communications Officer with the feeling that he'd been caught doing something illegal. Once again, he had found himself staring absently at the back of the unfamiliar blonde, female navigator's head, reliving Gary Mitchell's death in his mind's eye. He was tired, and his body ached with the still-raw grief of losing the man who'd been his best friend since the Academy. _And it was your hands that did it,_ the voice in the back of his mind said. _You killed Gary. You killed him._

"What's the message, Lieutenant?" he asked, ignoring the voice with difficulty. He stood and placed both hands on the thin railing that separated Communications and Science from the rest of the Bridge. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spock watching him, but he wasn't in the mood for another _it wasn't your fault, Captain_ lecture, and he knew that if they made eye contact that Spock would know he'd been dwelling on it again.

"They're being attacked by Klingons, sir. They're just above orbit of Capella IV…warp capabilities down. It's the _USS Consitution_. Diplomatic vessel, about two-hundred and fifteen crew."

"The _Constitution_? They were looking for rights to the topeline mines on Capella IV. Looks like maybe the Klingons were looking for the same thing." The memory of two days of physical therapy and a cranky trainee doctor almost made him smile, but Gary was too interwoven into those days in the Academy hospital, and it was his face that Kirk saw when he turned to the helm. "Adjust course to Capella IV. Shields and phasers ready…warp six."

"Warp six, sir."

"Estimated arrival time, Mr. Spock?"

"Estimated time of arrival, twenty-four minutes at warp six, Captain."

Kirk acknowledged the time grimly—it was more time than he'd hoped, but the Constitution was lucky they'd been passing so closely through the next sector. Lucky, if _Enterprise_ could get there on time. Lucky, if the _Constitution_ could hold the Klingon fire for twenty-four minutes more.

_No more will die on my watch_.

* * *

The next body McCoy reached was Runford's. Even before he waved his scanner across the silent chest he knew it was useless.

"No need, nurse, he's dead," he said, and the young nurse standing beside him retracted the offered hypo with a small whimper. McCoy stood with difficulty, legs cramping, and stared down at the crumpled young man. It wasn't the first death he'd proclaimed during the last two hours, and he had a feeling that it would be far from the last. And now they were short a doctor, and the casualties were still coming. They'd gained a brief respite when the Captain had managed to patch through a request for negotiations, but to no one's surprise, the Klingons hadn't appeared interested in anything but the _Constitution_'s ultimate surrender. Captain Rosewell had been unwilling to cede, and fire had resumed shortly after. It had been enough time to boost the strength of their shields, and they'd managed a few good hits with their missiles that had disoriented the Klingons long enough that the _Constitution_ had limped out of range, if only for a few minutes. Then the Klingons had come back full force, and that was when they'd managed the hit that had thrown Runford against the bulkhead and snapped his neck. At least it had been quick.

The ship shuddered and screamed, and McCoy grabbed at the nearest biobed and glanced heavenward as the lights dimmed, blinked, plunged the ship into darkness, and then flickered back on with a low drone. The ship listed, rolling starboard, and then stabilized again with what felt like great effort. The Captain's voice came on shipwide, sounding calm and collected, reassuring the crew that help was on its way. Stay at your stations, hold on, help is on its way.

_Whoever you are, hurry. We can't take much more of this. _

But until either the promised help arrived or they were blown to pieces, McCoy was still a doctor, and he pushed himself off from the bio-bed and staggered across the quaking, pitching ship to the next patient. He'd only just reached the side of one of medical's research personnel when the next barrage took a direct hit on Sickbay and his world exploded. He had the vague sensation of weightlessness, and then he landed hard, ten feet from where he'd last stood and his vision went black. Bright lights popped in front of his eyes and he heard himself groan, heard the screams, heard the comm whine on, heard the Captain's voice crying that shields were down, shields were down, and all he could do was lay on the floor between a bio-bed and the body of an engineer, smelling the acid and the blood, tasting the salt of his own sweat, and wait for the end.

* * *

And that's it. I would promise to update again soon, but given my past record with this fic I'm not sure I'd feel entirely honest if I did. So instead I'll just say that I hope I'll update soon now that I've got back into it, and we'll see what happens. Thanks again for sticking with this!


	6. Six

Look at this, another chapter! *wiggles with pride* This one is again, more Kirk-centered, but it just happened that way and I got too excited that the muse was working to argue with it.

* * *

**Six**

The starship on the viewscreen in front of Captain Kirk was listing horribly, glistening nacelles pointing heavenward as if praying for help that had come too late. Chunks of debris blown from the silver rim and lower engines were drifting helplessly past _Enterprise_; the intership comm unit was ominously silent despite Communications repeated hails.

"Spock?"

Spock did not look up from his instruments at the science station, but he responded immediately to the unspoken question.

"Reading life signs, Captain. Some of the crew have survived the attack."

"And the Klingon vessel?"

"Out of sensor range. They must have picked up our communications with the _Constitution._"

"They ran," Mr. Sulu muttered from the helm. "Ran like the cowards they are."

"They were most certainly damaged by their encounter with the _Constitution_," Spock said mildly. "Facing another armed, fully operational starship would not have been appealing."

"Very well, Mr. Spock, I'm beaming over." Kirk stood from the center seat abruptly, tearing his eyes away from the pathetic image on the viewscreen and turning sharply on his heel. To the officer at Communications, "Inform Doctor Piper that there are survivors aboard who will undoubtedly need his assistance, Lieutenant. I want a medical team assembled and beamed over directly. Spock, you have the Conn. Sulu, Reynolds, with me."

"Yes, sir." Sulu stood quickly and joined his Captain and the red-shirted security officer by the Bridge doors as Spock moved down to stand next to the center chair.

"Inform me immediately of any indication that the Klingons are returning," Kirk instructed, "and have a team waiting by the transporter rooms to help get any survivors to our Sickbay."

"Yes, Captain."

Kirk nodded and was about to step into the turbolift when Communications wheeled about, clutching his headpiece to his ear, eyes wide.

"Captain, you'll want to hear this. It's from the _Constitution._"

Kirk paused as the lieutenant's fingers skittered across his console, and then a weak baritone floated onto the Bridge.

"_Enterprise_, this is _Constitution. _Do not beam over. Repeat, do not beam over. Matter-antimatter pods severely damaged by Klingon attack, Chief Engineer Carlisle says ship could blow any moment. Radiation from damaged engines increasing to danger levels. Remove yourself from range. Repeat, remove yourself to safety. Captain Rosewell is dead, First Officer Harrell is dead. Damage is severe. Do not beam over."

There was a pause, and then the voice began again.

"_Enterprise, _this is _Constitution._ Do not beam over. Repeat, do not beam over…"

"It's a recording, sir," the lieutenant said. "Left eight minutes ago."

Kirk hesitated, staring at the starship on the viewscreen, heart pounding. His head was spinning, examining every option, logic fighting instinct, the safety of his own ship and crew weighed against the possibility of saving lives…

"Spock?"

"Unstable antimatter pods are highly dangerous, Captain. If they are, indeed, as weak as the recorded message indicates, transporting to the _Constitution_ would be illogical. The number of lives to save there is hardly equivalent to the number of lives that would be lost on the _Enterprise_ if it were within range when the _Constitution _explodes."

"What are the chances we'll make it back in time?"

Heads turned from the Captain to the Science Officer and back again like a tennis match—a tennis match, Kirk thought, that held lives in the balance.

"That, sir, depends entirely on the exact condition of the antimatter pods." Spock stepped gracefully back up to Science and bent over his instruments again as Kirk fidgeted with impatience. After a heartbeat, he stood upright, paused for a moment more, face impassive, and then said, "Calculated fourteen point six minutes before radiation levels in engineering increase to the magnitude at which they will detonate the antimatter pods."

"And the radiation levels on the rest of her, high enough to harm my crew?"

Spock shook his head. "Negative."

"Then we have enough time. What about interference with the transporter?"

"Unable to lock onto any life signals from the _Enterprise_, Captain. The _Constitution's_ transporter, however, appears to be operational."

"Then we'll beam them over here via their transporter. Lieutenant, inform Sickbay of the situation. Spock, be prepared to leave the sector as soon as we're back on board with the survivors."

"Captain, I request permission to accompany your boarding party."

Kirk was taken aback by this, but Spock's dark eyes were hooded, hands clasped neatly behind his back, and he gave off a distinct aura of discomfort as if he expected Kirk to refuse. Kirk hesitated, and he wondered for a brief moment if Spock were remembering Delta Vega too, and an order that left Spock unconscious until Kirk had disappeared, chasing a god with nothing but a phaser rifle and his own guilt. "All right, Spock, I could use you over there. Lieutenant, have Mr. Scott report to the Bridge. Until he arrives, Richards, you've got the conn."

Richards, a middle-aged engineering lieutenant, looked startled but moved immediately from where he stood by the security console towards the center seat, pausing uncomfortably when he reached it, unsure. "Yes, sir."

"Let's move."

As the turbolift doors swished softly shut, Kirk caught one last glimpse of the destroyed _Consitution_ on the viewscreen, and he felt the nausea of anticipation begin to churn in his gut. Gary Mitchell's laughing, burning face leapt to his mind's eye, eyes glowing silver, the image of a man only seconds away from being buried in a grave dug for someone else on a desolate, barren planet days away. He closed his eyes tightly for a second, shutting out the image, and then stared at the door straight ahead, willing it to open, to spill him out and over to the _Constitution _before it was too late.

_I've got your blood on my hands, Gary. I won't have anyone else's. Not today. Not now._

They shimmered onto the Bridge to the acrid smell of debris and smoke. Bodies littered the ground, curled in on themselves, hunched over consoles, six or seven of them. Kirk leapt down onto the lower deck and bent over the body of Captain Rosewell, gritting his teeth with the pain of the hatred that flared in his chest. "Bloody Klingons didn't give her a fighting chance," he said. "The Bridge must've taken a direct hit. Spock, any alive?"

"None here, Captain," Spock replied, head cocked over his tricorder. "The largest concentrations of survivors are in Sickbay and Engineering."

Kirk straightened and nodded sharply at the turbolift doors. "Sulu, Reynolds, start searching the lower decks for survivors. Get them to a transporter room and beam them to the Enterprise directly. Make sure you are both off this ship in…"

"11.56 minutes", Spock supplied.

"…no exceptions. Your safety is my highest priority," Kirk said. "Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get moving. Spock, I want to open shipwide contact. Can you get it operational?"

Spock was already up by Communications, moving the dead officer gently away from the console. "Yes, Captain."

"Do it." Kirk flipped open his communicator, the palms of his hands sweaty. "Kirk to Piper."

His CMO's voice filtered clearly from the device in his hand, sounding breathless. _"Piper here, sir, we're on our way to Sickbay, but we've run across some survivors in critical condition. I have part of my team remaining behind to get them back to the _Enterprise._"_

"Good. Doctor, I'm transmitting a message shipwide and then Spock and I are going down to Engineering. Take care of Sickbay. And make sure you and your team are back in the transporter room in no less than ten minutes."

_"Aye, sir."_

"Kirk out." He joined Spock at Communications, watching silently as Spock's fingers danced lightly across the console, coaxing sparks of life here, there, toggling switches, adjusting levers, fiddling with exposed wires. And finally, "Here, Captain. Shipwide communication open." He stepped deftly out of the way and Kirk leaned against the frayed, still smoking console, mouth dry.

"This is Captain Kirk of the _USS Enterprise_. My crew is on board the _Constitution_ and ready to aid any survivors. There are no more than ten minutes before this ship self-implodes. All surviving personnel report immediately to transporter rooms and prepare to be beamed aboard the _Enterprise_." He paused for a second and then repeated the message. He waited for another moment, glanced around the Bridge, and headed for the turbolift.

"Let's go."

The turbolift door had already slid open when the Communications board whistled. Kirk whirled back, narrowly avoiding Spock, who side-stepped hastily, and punched the comm.

"Kirk here."

The gravelly Southern drawl that rasped through the speaker was pleasantly familiar. _"Ah hope you've got paht of that crew of yours headin' to Sickbay, Cahptain Kirk. We could use some help dahn here. Oh, and welcome aboard the _Constitution_. Sorry we couldn'ta offered you a moah welcomin' reception."_

Kirk grinned in spite of himself. "Good to hear your voice, Doc." The flood of relief that released some of the tension in his shoulders made him realize for the first time how much he'd been counting on hearing it, and he rubbed a hand across his eyes harshly. "I've got my CMO headed your way."

_"Good to hear. McCoy out."_

The console went dead, and Kirk broke for the door.

* * *

He had woken to the sound of a familiar golden voice crackling over the intercom, halfway through what sounded like an important message. He hadn't been aware that he'd even blacked out, but he did remember the distinct impression that he'd just died. Opening his eyes took a colossal effort, and by the time he'd hauled his aching bones up and staggered to the comm unit on the opposite wall he'd remembered that he only should have been dead, and that he obviously wasn't, and that according to the voice from the Bridge he only had ten minutes to make sure that he and anyone else still living stayed that way.

He ended the communication with Kirk and stopped to take in the destruction that was Sickbay for the first time.

"Oh, glory."

He reminded himself that doctors had no business feeling overwhelmed, and when the door hissed open softly seconds later he was already crouching over the body of CMO Dawson, checking for a nonexistent pulse. He glanced up to see an older man wearing Starfleet blue and four other medical personnel enter, grimly take in the sights and smells, and disperse into the wreckage instantly, hardly stopping to offer him even a glance of acknowledgement. Efficient, these _Enterprise_ people. Only their leader, who by the stripes on his sleeve was the CMO, paused by his side to offer a few quick instructions.

"We've only got a few minutes, Doctor. Leave the dead alone and find what survivors we can. I'd rather not leave any behind if we can help it."

"Understood," McCoy said. Find the living. Find the survivors. Find Angela. Less than ten minutes. So many bodies, so much blood, so much dirt, chunks of ceiling, spilled chemicals and the wreckage of what was once top-of-the-line equipment to wade through to find patients that may or may not have survived…_Lord, help us all._

The next few minutes were a blur as the six of them took Sickbay like a whirlwind, reviving unconscious crew with quick shots of stimulant, enlisting ones whose injuries still allowed independent mobility to aid with assisting those who could not walk, sending them out in groups of two, three, four, with instructions to find a transporter room and alert the _Enterprise_. With every dead man or woman he reached that was not Angela Rhead his hope increased, hope that maybe she was still alive, maybe she had already walked out on her own, hope that the next body wouldn't be hers.

But then time ran out. The CMO from the _Enterprise_, voice heavy with frustration and regret, said, "Move out, we've got two and a half minutes to beam out of here," and his crew moved immediately for the doors. The fear he'd been suppressing punched him violently in the stomach, and even as his head screamed,_ Get out of here, McCoy!_, his body refused to obey. He stopped at another motionless member of the _Constitution_'s engineering staff and felt for a pulse—there was none, and he moved to the next, and then the next, heart pounding, ignoring the fact that the _Enterprise _medico were already out the door, supporting the last pitifully small gathering of survivors between them. The CMO stood at the door, watching him with pity that only fueled the fear inside him, sent it exploding into anger, anger at the Klingons, anger at his own fear, anger at the CMO for giving the order to abandon people that could be saved.

"Doctor," the CMO said. "There's no time. We'll have to leave the rest. I'm sorry."

In his head, he said, _I never leave a patient. Why are you? _even though he knew he wasn't being fair, that the CMO was only looking after his own crew, and that judged on the incredible sadness written all over the man's face leaving was tearing his heart out the same as it was McCoy's. It was only this, the feeling that the _Enterprise_ CMO understood McCoy's own feelings at losing lives placed in his care that allowed him to step away from his own raging emotions. He swallowed, knowing that he was going to dream about this graveyard that had once been Sickbay for the rest of his life. _Angela. I'm sorry, darlin'. If you're still here I'll never forgive myself. Please don't still be here. Be on the _Enterprise_, safe and alive. _

And he said, "Yes, sir," and his hands let go of a dead man's arm, and his feet turned him towards the door, and, hating himself, he didn't look back.

* * *

Kirk reached Engineering a step ahead of Spock, and it was only a gentle, "Captain," that reminded him that to go barreling into a section of the ship that was heavily infused with radiation and decaying antimatter pods was a bad idea. So he thumbed the comm unit on the wall instead, broadcasting his voice into the vast belly of the ship that, according to Spock's tricorder, registered the largest pocket of life left on board.

"Engineering. Engineering, this is Captain Kirk of the _Enterprise_. Respond."

There was an agonizing moment of silence, and then a quiet voice issued from the speaker by Kirk's fist.

_"This is Chief Engineer Carlisle. Don't waste your time here, Captain Kirk. There's no way out."_

"What do you mean, there's no way out, Engineer? How many of you are in there?"

There was a brief pause, and then, _"Sixty-four alive. We're trapped. Debris blocking off emergency exits—we've been trying to shift it but there's no way around. Radiation is heavy, it's starting to make some of the men sick."_

"And your main exit? What's wrong with it?"

There was faint chuckle. _"We're in section 4D, sir. The antimatter pods are in the next room. I had crew working to stabilize them, but then we took a nasty hit hit and the door jammed open. Radiation was building…I locked the main doors to the rest of the ship so it wouldn't filter to the rest of the crew so fast and had everyone evacuate to the lower levels so we could use emergency exits while I and some of my crew tried to do what we could with the antimatter pods. Then we took that last hit and well, there went our emergency exits. We did everything we could, sir, but if we open this door down here now all of this pent-up radiation is going to blow those antimatter pods to the devil."_

4D. Kirk's mind raced frantically. That was deep in the bowels of the ship, right up next to the warp engines. Between here and there…his mind constructed a diagram of the ship, and he traced it desperately for another way out, something the crew might have missed. The picture was devastating. Kirk leaned up against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. Sixty-four men and women, trapped in a section filling with radiation, unstable antimatter pods next door, no way out…

"Spock?"

Spock shook his head slowly. "I can think of no solution, Captain. Chief Engineer Carlisle has done everything he can. There is no other way out of Engineering except for past the antimatter pod chamber. There is no way to safely navigate past that chamber without releasing the radiation building from the warp engines."

_"He's right, Captain," _said Carlisle's voice desolately. _"We're dead men. Help the rest of the crew…there's nothing more you can do here. We'll go down with the ship."_

"Engineer…" Kirk wanted to offer words of comfort, a solution, but he could think of nothing that wouldn't sound trite. He settled with, "The rest of your crew has been beamed aboard the Enterprise. I can have my men try to lock onto your signal."

Even as he said the words he knew it was no good. Spock was already shaking his head again, but Kirk cut him off before he could speak.

"I know, Spock, I know…" Kirk rubbed at his temple with two fingers, feeling sick.

_"Don't waste any more time, Captain. You don't have much of it." _

He was desperately reluctant to leave, mind still working, looking for any possible loopholes, but Spock was at his elbow now, voice low.

"He is correct, Captain. We are out of time."

His first instinct was to lash out at Spock for being too unfeeling, too cold at the prospect of condemning sixty-four human beings to death, but he swallowed the words with one look at Spock's face. Looking at the pale, drawn lines around the Vulcan's mouth and eyes, he wondered how he could have ever thought that his CSO was incapable of human feeling—the absolute sorrow in those deep brown eyes was vivid.

He struggled for a moment and Spock allowed it silently, for which he was grateful. Then he turned once more to the comm unit and rasped into it, "I'm…sorry, Engineer. I know how inadequate that sounds, but I truly am."

_"Understood, Captain. There's nothing you could have done. Captain?" _There was a second's hesitation, and then the voice came again, even more quietly. _"Would you record my men's deaths as such in the line of duty? They deserve that much."_

Kirk was struck with how young Carlisle sounded, and he placed a palm flat on the wall as if he could reach through with more than just his voice. "I would consider it my privilege to record both their deaths _and_ _yours_ as so, Commander."

_"Thank you, sir."_

There was nothing else to be said. Kirk released the transmission and took a step back, staring at the locked door as if it would open and release its captives if only he wanted it badly enough. Then he turned away with a great effort, already hearing the echoes of sixty-four voices screaming in his nightmares.

"All right, Spock. Let's go."

* * *

A note or two: There were a few points I wasn't sure about, like whether or not radiation could block the transporter, but it made sense and I decided that in my fic it could. I couldn't think of any episode that would counter that outright, but if any of you readers can, please let me know! Also, if there's a real deck/section down there in Engineering that's close to the warp engines, correct me with my admittedly fabricated "4D". And of course, any other discrepancies you find in this chapter; I'll admit that I'm not quite as confident with this one. That's not a hint to review or anything...


	7. Seven

First of all, thank you so much for all of your reviews! They've really kept this going. I appreciate every one of you-this story would have crashed a long time ago without your support. And I guess that's really all I have to say. So on we go! Oh, wait. This is also the first time in a long time I've tried to write from Spock's pov, because I find him irritatingly difficult. So please let me know if there's anything that's glaringly not-Spockish. That's all.

* * *

**Seven**

Looking back after everything was over, the last two minutes on board the _Constitution _seemed the longest of his life. He even checked with the records later, convinced that it must have been longer, that he must have had more than one-hundred and twenty short seconds after leaving the sickbay before wakening groggily on the Enterprise to the scream of red alert, a lithe, strong arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders. That arm had dragged him off the transporter pad and propelled him roughly into the arms of several medico to a muted din of shocked voices. At this point, all he really remembered was a burning ache behind his eyes, a blurred image of his own blood spattering slowly onto the floor, and a tense, dull pain at the point where his shoulder met his neck.

For the next few moments, all was confusion and white noise inside his head. He could feel hands still supporting him and realized that he wasn't carrying his own weight, and he could hear a crisp, staccato baritone speaking and an authoritative, golden voice replying, but he couldn't hear the words. Trying to tune his brain in was like trying to find an old 20th century radio station with no signal—an occasional word would flit through to his consciousness like his own name, _McCoy, _spoken by the baritone voice, or the name of his ship, _Constitution_, spoken by the golden one, but mostly it was all disorienting static. And then, past the pain in his neck and the blood smeared across his face (from his nose, he recognized, possibly broken, no pain yet, could be shock, how did he manage to break his nose?), the emotions began to surface.

Fear, a little. Surprise, some. Sadness, more than a little. But above all, anger. No, more than anger, it was rage. Absolute _rage_ directed at the arm that held him on the transporter pad, at the baritone voice ordering him to _return at once_, at the hands that were too strong and the powerful, bone-thin fingers that sent a sharp knife of pain stabbing into his neck that faded immediately into darkness.

On the heels of these emotions came the memories, and with the memories everything snapped abruptly into focus. The gleaming, sterilized transporter room of the _Enterprise_ appeared as if by magic around him, and the pain in his nose was suddenly _there_. His medical brain said, _not broken, _but hedismissed it as unimportant, spitting out a mouthful of blood and pushing himself away from the CMO and a male nurse who both protested loudly.

"Doctor! Careful!"

But he had no time for them. He swung around to where a ramrod straight Vulcan Science Officer stood next to Captain Kirk who was speaking into the comm, clenched fists resting on the console. And the words were terrible.

"Scotty, get us out of here!"

He let out a strangled cry and leapt to the console, slamming both palms down next to Kirk, who jerked up, shocked.

"Not yet! We can't leave, not yet!"

But it was too late—there was a surge of power from the warp engines, and the transporter room was suddenly deathly quiet. McCoy stood braced against the console, feeling that if it weren't there he would fall, fall slowly and terribly and land hard. Kirk reached out a hand and placed it awkwardly on his shoulder, voice thick with empathy.

"I'm sorry. We had no choice. The _Constitution…_"

A thick Scottish brogue interrupted him, and it had the nerve to sound _relieved_. _"We're away and just in time, Captain. The _Constitution_ blew just when Mr. Spock said it would, poor girl. She's gone."_

She's gone. McCoy shrugged away the Captain's hand, feeling the weight of the world settling down around him. All of the emotions he had felt in those last minutes on the Constitution and then here, on the _Enterprise_, were coalescing into one hard knot of sick fury deep in his chest. It was begging to be released; he felt it would consume him if he kept it pent up, and he'd never been good at controlling himself anyway. Kirk's brow creased, and the hand lifted again, this time in a manner that suggested that he could see the pending explosion.

"Doctor McCoy…"

But McCoy was no longer concerned with the Captain—Kirk was not to blame, not so much, at any rate, as was the Vulcan standing there with his hands clasped neatly behind him, looking at him through dark, cold eyes.

_There's nothing in them_, McCoy thought, and his feet were carrying him forward now, brushing brusquely around the Captain, shaking off a hand that grasped his bicep, vaguely aware of several medico and other various personnel still in the room staring at him but not caring. _There's nothing at all in those eyes. Windows to the soul, my sainted aunt…ain't nothin' there. Nothin' at all._

* * *

-_Two minutes previous-_

It seemed a much longer distance back to the transporter room than it had been coming from it. Just focusing on keeping his feet moving seemed difficult, when every step was leading him inexorably away from lives he still wanted desperately to save. But his adrenaline had kicked in now, and he pumped his legs faster, feeling something inside the ship beginning to give way. Spock seemed to feel it too, casting fleeting glances at the walls and ceiling as if expecting them to buckle suddenly. They moved in sync, around one corner, down the next corridor, through a door here, down the last stretch, the layout of this ship as familiar as their own _Enterprise_. They burst panting (at least in Kirk's case; Spock managed to slide to a halt as gracefully as if he'd walked languidly into the room) into the transporter room just as a group of five vanished from the pads in a shower of gold.

"Report, mister," Kirk said, and the crewman operating the controls snapped to attention.

"We're still waiting on the med-team, Captain—all others have been beamed aboard your ship," he said. "If you'll step on, sir, I'll wait behind."

Kirk smiled a little, making a note to commend this _Constitution _officer in his report. "I'd like you to go with this last group," he said. "Mr. Spock and I will stay behind until the medical unit arrives." He moved authoritatively behind the console, gently ousting the young ensign from his place before there could be any protest. "Onto the transporter with you."

The officer obeyed, and the last four Constitution personnel disappeared from the pad—the room was now empty but for the two _Enterprise_ officers, and Kirk tapped his personal communicator impatiently. Before he could hail his CMO, however, the door swished open, spilling a small crowd of people into the room.

"All accounted for?" Kirk barked, and a breathless Piper nodded.

"All here, Captain."

Kirk gestured at the pad, but those of his men supporting patients from the _Constitution_ sickbay were already in position. Spock reached for the controls and Kirk let him, stepping out from around the console to confer quietly with Piper.

"Is this all of them?"

Piper shook his head. "I don't know. We got to as many as we could, but there were some areas we couldn't reach for the debris and a lab or two we didn't have time to search. There could still be survivors in there, Captain, but I had to get my people out."

"I understand."

Piper smiled sadly, and Kirk turned away, unwilling to see the sympathy written plainly on the older man's face. He found himself instead face-to-face with Leonard McCoy, who looked as terrible as Kirk felt. His arms were streaked with dried blood, his tunic splattered with it, and his face was drawn and pale, his brilliant blue eyes stark against the white of his skin and the disheveled mess of thick brown hair.

"I'd offer to shake your hand, but maybe it'd better wait," he said abruptly, and the rough voice was solid, albeit quiet. "You have good men. And thank you for coming over. There'd be more of us dead without you."

"I'm only sorry we couldn't have arrived sooner," Kirk said. "But now if you'd step onto the transporter, Doctor, we'll get you beamed over with the next…"

"I'll wait for the last group," McCoy interrupted firmly. "It's my duty to ensure the safety of everyone on board this vessel, and I'll stay until I can confirm that."

Kirk glanced at Spock, who raised an eyebrow at him that said clearly, _we're out of time_, and Kirk threw up his hands.

"I won't argue with you, Doctor, I don't have time. Spock, get on that pad, I'm beaming you over…"

"I shall stay, Captain," Spock said, and Kirk nearly screamed in frustration. Since when had disagreeing with the Captain become a popular, much less acceptable, thing to do? "Your safety as Captain of _Enterprise _is paramount. Please step onto the transporter."

Kirk stared for a moment at his Science Officer—he had never heard Spock speak like that before, and it was that combined with the absolute determination written into every line of Spock's body that surprised him enough to acquiesce.

"Very well," he said, and though his head was protesting loudly against leaving the ship before his personnel, he had the feeling that if he argued with Spock he'd only end up manhandled onto the pad, regulations be damned. He grabbed at a listing patient draped over the trembling shoulders of a female nurse and hauled him over to the pad, turning on his heel to survey quickly. The room was basically clear now but for Spock, McCoy, and another _Enterprise _nurse holding a wad of gauze against the bloody shoulder of a _Constitution _security.

He was just about to give the order to _energize_ when the comm unit on the console whistled, and a chill shot down his spine. Spock's brow contracted sharply, and he jammed the toggle crisply. A voice filtered through, and Kirk's hopes were dashed as instead of Scotty's thick brogue a shaky female voice seemed to fill the room.

_"This is Sickbay. Is there anyone still on board? Please, come in, is there anyone still on board?"_

Kirk nearly moaned, stomach twisting. There was no time to go back. Even as he wavered on the edge, tortured with indecision, Spock was replying coolly, calmly.

"Sickbay, this is the transporter room. Regret to inform you that we are less than a minute from detonation. There is not sufficient time to retrieve you."

Kirk shifted his body weight and the man slumped at his side groaned.

_"Understood," _the voice came, but now McCoy was moving forward, and his face was, if possible, even paler. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, and he was shaking his head violently.

"I've got to go after her."

"No!" Kirk said immediately, and if it wasn't for the dead weight he was supporting he would have dove off the pad to physically restrain the Doctor. As it was, all he could do was hope that McCoy would listen. "Stay here, Doctor McCoy, that's an order!"

"I won't leave her behind!" McCoy returned, and he was already moving to the door. The _Enterprise _nurse moved to block his way, but McCoy batted him aside easily and was gone, the sound of his footsteps pounding away down the corridor.

"McCoy!" Kirk bellowed, but then his vision was blurring, obscured by gold, and he realized that Spock must have activated the transporter. The last thing he saw before he was whirled away was a blue uniform slipping out the door, and he offered a silent prayer to whatever gods belonged to this side of the galaxy.

_Don't make me warp out of here without them. Give Spock time. Give Spock time…_

* * *

Nothing but the obvious panic in his Captain's voice could have incited Spock to do something so incredibly illogical as chase down an insubordinate idiot of a man when they were less than forty seconds from exploding into space rubble. But he made the split-second decision, activated the transporter, commanded, "Beam yourself and that patient to the _Enterprise_, nurse!" and took off after the fleeing Doctor, rationalizing shamelessly.

_This Doctor, however foolish, is a highly trained surgeon and his presence may be needed on the _Enterprise_._

That, unfortunately, was the only explanation he could think of that sounded logical, and even it was a poor shot—they had Piper and a whole team of sound medical personnel on the _Enterprise_, and endangering his own, admittedly important life for one that would be, at best, nice to have was highly illogical.

_ You're doing it for the Captain, because you can't bear to see him lose another man he cares about when you can do something about it,_ said a voice in his head, and he dismissed it curtly.

_I act logically. The Captain is only just recovering from the loss of Gary Mitchell. Another loss would be difficult to overcome, and may damage his ability to command satisfactorily._

Another illogical conclusion, he knew; Captain Kirk was not one to give anything less than his best, even in the face of hard losses like Gary Mitchell or, very possibly, this Doctor McCoy. The loss of his Science Officer, however, would be a different matter, and again Spock was faced with the conclusion that putting his own life on the line in pursuit of a reckless, idiotic man he knew almost nothing about for a man he had only recently begun to truly respect _–more than respect—I did think the word "friend" in respect to Captain Kirk shortly after Mitchell's death-_was incredibly foolish.

But even with these thoughts, Spock did not turn around. He was running almost silently, much more quickly than the exhausted McCoy, and it was only seconds before he had caught up to the man and grabbed him by the arm.

The sudden tide of emotion roaring through that skin-on-skin was nearly overwhelming. He had shields up, he had thought he was prepared to touch this near-stranger, but never before had he felt such vibrant, tumultuous emotion in a human being before. The only comparison he could make were those rare times he had come in contact with Jim Kirk—and never had he thought he could find Kirk's equal in emotional magnitude. Anger, grief, fear, and something he had come to recognize as _love_ assaulted him all at once, and he suddenly realized that McCoy's break for Sickbay was much more than Doctor-to-Patient—McCoy knew the girl on the comm. And more than that, he, to whatever extent, _loved _her.

That would only make this more difficult, but no less necessary. The doctor had let out a yelp of surprise as Spock's hand grasped him, and the force of his forward momentum yanked him around so that they were face-to-face.

"Let go!" he growled, stumbling backward, tugging violently at Spock's restraining hand. "Let go!"

"You will return at once with me, doctor," Spock said, and threw his own weight back in reply to McCoy's vehement struggles. He pulled harder than he'd intended—he was still shaken by the torrent of emotions pouring through the contact with McCoy's skin, and McCoy crashed forward with another cry. He side-stepped hastily, trying to avoid a collision, and stumbled over a large shard of bulkhead. He managed to right himself without falling, but McCoy was not so lucky—he went sprawling, and though both hands shot out to catch himself, his face still smacked the floor with a sickening _crunch_, and he curled in on himself, howling.

The immediate flow of blood indicated a possible break, but Spock had no time for a diagnosis. Instead, he hauled the doctor mercilessly to his feet and propelled him back towards the transporter room. Inexplicably, the doctor again began to struggle.

"Let me go back, you heartless fool, there are people still alive on this ship!"

He was barely understandable through the blood pouring from his nose, but Spock got the gist of what he was saying and shook his head, privately wondering why the doctor would choose to call _him_ a fool when it was clearly McCoy who was acting the fool in this situation.

"I find it hard to understand why you would choose to join those people in death, doctor. You must know that there is no time to save them and yourself."

"I've got to try! I can't live with myself if I don't try!"

Spock's internal clock was ticking, and it told him they had only seconds. "Admirable, Doctor, but illogical. I cannot argue with you now—you leave me no choice."

"No choice…"

But McCoy's struggling ceased abruptly as Spock's fingers clamped ruthlessly down on the nerve cluster tucked between the neck and shoulder. His eyes rolled upward and he collapsed—Spock bent and swung him up over his shoulder easily and broke into an awkward sprint. It was fortunate, he thought, that the doctor was so light. He had only yards to go, and he burst into the abandoned transporter room to the sound of Kirk's urgent voice on the comm.

_"Spock, you're cutting it awfully close! Spock!"_

There was no time to respond. Spock shifted the doctor's deadweight and punched in a quick combination on the console, climbed up to the pad, and swung the doctor down, draping one of the limp arms across his own shoulders and clamping his free arm tightly around the doctor's thin ones. The body contact was uncomfortable at best, but there was no alternative if he wanted the doctor to make it in one piece. Which was debatable, but there was no time for all-too-human contemplations of _that_ nature either.

Two seconds later, the whirl of gold took them.

They materialized in seconds and he practically leapt off the pad, shoving the moaning doctor into Piper's waiting arms. The fleeting look of gratitude in Kirk's eyes was not missed, but Spock chose to ignore it and offered only,

"Doctor McCoy was quite determined, Captain. We have only seconds."

Kirk accepted the explanation without question and whipped around to the console.

"Scotty, the last party from the _Constitution_ is on board. Prepare for warp speed _now_!"

_"Aye sir!"_ there was a second's pause, and Spock tensed. The Doctor had just roused abruptly into complete consciousness, and it disoriented Spock, this awareness of a human being he had only just met. Somehow the connection he had initiated with that first contact on the _Constitution _had not died with the contact itself—he could feel the rage erupt behind him before he heard the scuffling and the protests of the _Enterprise _medico. He felt rather than heard the footsteps, could feel the vibrations of the doctor's harsh breathing, could smell the acid stench of blood, could taste the heated fury rolling in waves from the body that slammed itself on Kirk's other side.

He did not hear the short exchange that followed, but he felt it like a great desert storm in his mind, could almost see the emotions roiling between the two men, and it took everything he had to pull away from it. He stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back, focusing on a point somewhere over the two humans, and found a safe place behind his walls. The emotions buffeting at his control eased, and were, with another effort, all but silenced. He closed his eyes for a moment and gently opened himself up again, this time keeping the shields poised and ready against the torrential passion surrounding him.

He opened his eyes and found Kirk, but then a pair of bright, red-rimmed, flinty blue eyes locked on his, and he slammed the walls down again. He was in no mood to jockey rights and wrongs with this man, especially not after he had placed the entire crew of the _Enterprise _in unnecessary danger. He straightened his back, lifted a brow, and waited for the onslaught.

McCoy had obviously never confronted a passionless, shielded, disinterested Vulcan before.

Well, there was a first time for everything.

* * *

I'm sure how I'm going to wrap this whole thing up yet-I've got a few ideas bouncing around in my head. But I'm thinking one or two more chapters will probably do it. We're nearing the end, folks.


	8. Eight

Thank you for all of your kind reviews! I feel a little scattered; I had to sit down and plot where this whole thing was going to go and this chapter is kind of a bridge between where it was going and where I think its going now, so forgive me if it doesn't flow as nicely as I wanted it to. I think I know where I'm headed now though, and it might end up being longer than I thought. But maybe I should stop predicting, because stories never seem to go where I think they will...

* * *

**Eight**

"You let her die."

From the obvious signs of a Vulcan nerve pinch, the blood drying in ugly brown smears on the doctor's face, the fury in the Southern drawl, and the cold stoicism of his Science Officer, Kirk gathered that whatever had happened on those last seconds on the _Constitution_ had not been good. This opening statement to what sounded like could be the beginnings of a messy confrontation only confirmed the hypothesis.

"Gentlemen…"

This was ignored; McCoy had stopped only inches from Spock, who was leaning away ever-so-slightly, one eyebrow cocked. He looked rather as if he would like to deck McCoy, who was seemingly oblivious to the subtle Vulcan irritation Kirk had easily identified. Vulcan irritation, Kirk knew, was not something to be taken lightly.

"You stopped me. I could have saved her!"

"That is an illogical statement," Spock said in monotone, as if teaching a very easy lesson to a particularly dim first-grader. "The _Constitution_ was only seconds from implosion. Mr. Scott has confirmed it—had you returned to Sickbay as you had intended, you and I would both be dead along with the rest of the survivors on board."

"I didn't _ask_ you to come after me," McCoy hissed. His whole body was taut with rage, eyes boring into Spock's, face white and rigid. Some part of Kirk's brain noted that if McCoy were looking at _him_ like that he'd likely be searching for the nearest Jeffries tube to hide in. The other part of him pitied the doctor; Spock was returning the fury with perfect indifference, which, in Kirk's experience, was both entirely infuriating and impossible to crack. Spock would let those shields of his down only when he was good and ready, and nothing anyone could do or say would break them before then. McCoy was doomed to rage at a brick wall, and if Kirk didn't step in he had the nasty feeling that one of those bulging veins in McCoy's neck might explode before the temper subsided.

"Doctor McCoy…"

The placating hand he had placed on the doctor's arm was flung off violently, but other than that Kirk was again ignored.

"I didn't ask you to come, I didn't ask you to risk your scrawny Vulcan neck for me! Good glory, man, there were _people_ on board that ship! If you had taken one second to think about _them!_"

"I acted in the only logical way," Spock said coldly. His hands were still clasped tightly behind his back, the grip gentle and relaxed, though Kirk could see the hard tension in his shoulders.

"Enough with the logic already!" McCoy cried, slapping a palm down on the console beside him with a loud _crack_. "This has nothing to do with logic. It has everything to do with those crewmen and your callous treatment of fellow Starfleet Officers. You could have at least shown some degree of pity when she called in, could have at least granted her the courtesy of knowing that there was someone over here who cared about her!"

"I am a Vulcan," Spock said, and now Kirk saw the muscles tighten in his CSO's jaw and knew that the doctor had struck a chord. "I do not feel. I told her only the facts. Pity would not have saved her."

McCoy gaped; he was speechless, shocked into temporary silence. Kirk took the opportunity to interject.

"Doctor McCoy, both of you did the best you knew how to do…Mr. Spock is right, she and the others could not have been saved. There was no time."

"She was only a girl," McCoy said bitterly, and for the first time his eyes moved away from Spock's face and to Kirk's. Those ice-bright eyes were shining with moisture that would not escape, full of naked grief. And Kirk knew that this girl had meant more to McCoy than just another fellow officer. "The least your Vulcan could have done was show her some respect."

"I granted her all the respect due a Starfleet Officer," Spock said. "I informed her of the situation and apologized for our inability to aid her and her fellows. Would you have rather I offered impossible hopes or plans for rescue that would have ultimately failed due to time constraints?"

"I wasn't asking you to lie to her," McCoy spat. "I'm just asking for some human compassion! No woman should have to die alone!"

"As I have already reminded you, I am not human. And your willingness to offer your own life for the sake of human compassion or companionship…"

"Don't say it's illogical!"

"Doctor McCoy," Kirk began again. He was unpleasantly surprised to find that McCoy was successfully accomplishing what he had never seen done—something about the man was actually getting under that thick Vulcan skin. But yet again he found himself very pointedly ignored…McCoy was shouting again.

"It's not the _logistics _of the situation, it's the humanity of it all! You might not be human, Mr. Spock, but she most surely was! There's something we humans find _decent_ about offering something more than the facts when a person's about to die. There might not be anything I could have done to save her life…" he took a deep, hitching breath and his eyes widened, as if he had only just realized the fact. "But I could have given her more than a _regret to inform you that you're about to die and there's nothing we can do about it _speech in her last moments. I could have given her more than that!"

"And yet when the moment presented itself you chose instead to pursue the impossible notion that perhaps she might be saved…when you knew, in fact, that she could not."

"I…" the doctor stuttered as that hit home, and Kirk frowned at Spock, feeling that it had been a low blow.

"Mr. Spock…"

"By your own reasoning, you should have stayed in the transporter room to speak to her through the comm and offered, in your words, some _human compassion_. Instead you disobeyed a direct order from a commanding officer to remain in the transporter room and jeopardized your own life, neither of which resulted in the rescue of your fellow crewmen on board the _Constitution_."

McCoy's hands shot out and actually grabbed the front of Spock's uniform, and he was no longer yelling, but the hoarse, trembling whisper was even worse.

"Don't you think I don't know that? Don't you think I don't _understand_ that? Don't you think I don't realize that there was nothing, _nothing_, I could have done?"

For a second no one spoke. Spock remained impassive, staring into McCoy's eyes only inches from his own, and Kirk held his breath. It seemed to him that something inside Spock was both relenting and contracting at the same time. The moment seemed to be begging for a release, but Kirk didn't know what to say—he was feeling slightly dizzy and nauseous, and it was all he could do to hope that McCoy wasn't about to be destroyed for invading Vulcan personal space.

But all Spock said was, "I invite you to release me, Doctor, and make your way to Sickbay. You have _living_ patients there that undoubtedly require your presence."

McCoy remained where he was, locked inches away from Spock's face, the blue uniform crumpled in his fists, muscles in his neck and jaw pulsing, and then he let go with what looked like colossal effort and stepped back. He swallowed once, tossed a quick glance at Kirk, and said,

"Thank the stars it's you and not me has to live with _that_. I'll be in Sickbay." He turned sharply on his heel and strode heavily to the door. As it hissed open he turned his head and said over his shoulder, "And I want off this ship at your earliest convenience, Captain."

Then the doors shut behind him and Kirk was left alone with Spock (the other crewmen in the room had evacuated quickly as soon as the shouting had begun), who refused to look him in the face. Kirk thought it might be protocol to issue a reprimand but he didn't have the energy or the heart to, and the thought of being fair to Spock and seeking out McCoy to give him the same reprimand was distasteful and a little frightening. He decided that it was best to pretend as if the whole thing had never happened.

"Mr. Spock…"

"I recognize that this display was inappropriate," Spock interjected. "May I apologize for the confrontation and assure you that it will not happen again, Captain."

"That's very well," Kirk said dryly, noting that Spock had very diplomatically refrained from placing blame, "But I was just going to suggest we retire to the Bridge. Scotty is, I am sure, anxious to return to his engines. And I want a thorough scan done of the entire ship in case of any residual effects from the explosion of the _Constitution_."

Spock nodded and straightened his crumpled uniform, and then he looked at Kirk carefully and perceptively.

"Are you feeling well, Captain?"

Kirk waved a hand dismissively. A visit to Sickbay was the last thing he wanted. What he really wanted was to lock himself into his cabin and forget about the whole ordeal, but he had a feeling that were he to try to sleep now the voices would catch up to him all too quickly. The only real distraction would be on the Bridge where there were other people and other business to focus on.

Spock fell into step just behind and to his left as they made their way to the lift, and as rattled as Kirk still felt about the scene he'd just witnessed he was glad for the company.

It was after his shift when he was entirely alone that he knew the nightmares would come.

* * *

Sickbay was large and white, with gleaming, sterilized surfaces and a vast amount of space. McCoy hadn't realized just how small the _Constitution_ had been until he had arrived on the _Enterprise_ and seen just how _much_ of everything there was. Piper had a well-trained, organized staff that neatly incorporated him into the goings-on as soon as he stepped through the doors…by way of seating him promptly down on a free bio-bed and going to work on his face. His initial protests did nothing—the nurse running a small hand-held scanner up and down in front of his nose only smiled whitely and carried on while another nurse brought a basin of warm water and a cloth to wash his arms and face of all the blood.

"Any other injuries?" the first nurse asked crisply as soon as she'd handed him a small pill for the pain and pronounced him "bruised but not broken" (as he could have told her himself).

"No," he growled. _Not that I'd tell you if there were,_ he added in his head, but the nurse didn't question him. As soon as she had whirled away to the next patient, he realized how bone-tired he was. More than being on his feet for the duration of the Klingon attack, his outburst of emotion in the transporter room had drained him of any remaining energy. Looking around at the chaos of Piper's medical personnel and patients it was almost-almost, but not quite-tempting to sit there for just a moment longer and let them take care of everything. He was just getting to his feet when Piper appeared in front of him.

"Surgical training?"

McCoy blinked. "Yes. Licensed surgeon for fifteen years."

"Good. We need you in Surgery 2, through those doors and to your left. We've got an almost-amputation, but I think we can save the arm. Feel comfortable with that?"

The speed of the whole conversation was a little disorienting, but already the procedure was playing itself out in his head, his mind spinning through the steps, the equipment, possible blood transfusion, medications, sterilizations, the complications of re-attaching an arm…McCoy nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll need equipment…"

"It's there. Nurses are prepping the poor kid now. I'm heading to Surgery 1 myself, or I'd do it. Thank God you're here. I've got a good Assistant Medical Officer but he's not experienced in this sort of thing. I've been telling Starfleet for months I want another trained surgeon aboard but you know Starfleet, they haven't listened yet…" Piper shook his head and rested a hand on McCoy's shoulder. "But enough of an old man's rambling. Good luck."

And he was gone, and McCoy was left to find his way to Surgery room two. He was grateful for the distraction—the damage was extensive and the reattachment was complicated enough that for the duration of the time he was in surgery thoughts of the _Constitution_, Angela Rhead, and Spock were all but forgotten.

He emerged from the surgery room triumphantly and found a young orderly waiting for him, looking anxious.

"Doctor McCoy?"

"That's right," McCoy said. "What's the problem?"

"It's the Captain, sir," the young man said. "He's asking for you."

McCoy was already moving, swiping a clean cloth from a nearby table to wipe his hands dry, the orderly skipping to keep up. "What'd he do?"

The orderly snorted, and McCoy stared. The orderly smiled and shrugged. "Funny that should be your first question, sir. The Captain has a way of…well, spending a lot of quality time in Sickbay. The staff knows him very well already."

"Well, I met your Captain in a Sickbay," McCoy said. "You remember that, Captain?"

They had reached Kirk, who was lying in a bio-bed looking pale and exhausted. He grinned weakly at McCoy, who scowled in return. The image of Kirk's stern face trying to placate him in the transporter room leapt to his mind's eye…the anger began to churn again in the pit of his stomach but he pushed it away with great effort and took the chart a nurse handed him, scanning it quickly.

"Just how long have you been feeling sick?" he asked. "You were looking pale when I arrived on board…you been up on the Bridge this whole time, pretending you weren't poisoned with that radiation from the _Constitution_?"

"It's not that serious," Kirk said. "Just a little nausea. Dizzy. Just give me a shot of something and let me go, I've got to check up on Scotty. Radiation from the explosion is affecting our warp core…"

"You're not going anywhere," McCoy said sharply, tapping the bio-bed with his stylus. "You're staying right here until I release you. You've got some radiation that needs to be flushed out of your system. It's not serious, but I'm surprised you haven't passed out or been sick yet."

Kirk muttered something to himself, and McCoy frowned down at him. "What was that, Captain?"

"I _did_ pass out," Kirk admitted dolefully. "That's when Spock had me man-handled down here."

"I see." Even hearing the name _Spock_ made McCoy's chest constrict with fury, but he was careful to keep his face as neutral as possible, and made a show of scanning Kirk's medical record again. He looked up to see Kirk watching him shrewdly and knew he hadn't fooled the man at all.

"It wasn't his fault," Kirk said. "And I think you know that. He would kill me for saying this, but he's really far more human than people give him credit for…"

"All right," McCoy interrupted. He could see the disappointment sharp and clear in Kirk's eyes, but he didn't care. "I'm going to put you on some medications, and they'll probably knock you out for a few hours." Kirk protested at this, but McCoy lifted a hand, silencing him. "Sorry, Captain, physical therapy won't solve this one. I'm sure your First Officer, Mitchell, wasn't that his name? can handle the ship for that long."

As soon as he'd said the name he knew something was wrong. Kirk's face had gone suddenly blank, and he bit the inside of his lip and waited.

"Mitchell's dead," Kirk said bluntly, and McCoy winced. "Recently. An ion storm. I haven't got a new First yet, that's why I've got to get back to the Bridge."

"I'm sorry," McCoy said, and meant it both for Mitchell and for his patient's fate, "but you're not leaving this Sickbay until I've cleared you. I'm sure you've got _someone _ up there on that Bridge who can take care of this ship long enough so that her Captain can take over without passing out in the middle of his shift."

Kirk looked ready to protest again, but McCoy silenced him with a look, injected him with a well-placed hypo, and patted his shoulder casually. "Sleep well, Captain."

Kirk mumbled something that sounded rather rude, but his body was already shutting down, helped along by the drugs spreading rapidly through his system. McCoy eyed the readings above Kirk's bed for a moment and then turned away, the memory of the transporter room resurfacing clearly in its lull between distractions. The orderly who had found him outside surgery was watching him with two other nurses, and all three were looking impressed.

"What?" he snapped, and they jumped, looking a little frightened. "What?" he asked again, more gentle this time, running a hand through his hair guiltily.

"He's never cooperated quite like that," the orderly explained after a second's pause. "Usually it takes a few of us to hold him down while Doctor Piper knocks him out. Not literally, of course," he added hastily, as if the very thought of holding his Captain down while the CMO administered the punches was blasphemous. "But he must be really sick."

"He's not all that bad," McCoy said. "He'll be fine when he wakes up. I don't think he's quite used to my bedside manner yet. Or lack of it. I don't have one."

The nurses stared, appalled that he would say something so un-Doctor like in such a casual tone, and he forced a laugh. "I'm only joking with you," he lied reassuringly. "Now, excuse me, I've got patients to attend to."

He turned to scan Sickbay and found Piper walking towards him. "How did surgery go?"

"Well enough," McCoy replied. "The kid's sleeping—arm is saved. Should have full mobility."

Piper smiled. "Good to hear. You've got real skill, Doctor. That was a nasty procedure."

McCoy shrugged off the praise. "Captain Kirk came down with radiation sickness, but I've taken care of it. He'll be fine when he wakes up."

"You convinced him he should be sedated?" Piper's eyebrows disappeared into his thinning hair, and McCoy shook his head.

"I didn't wait for his permission."

"You're a brave man. The Captain hates Sickbay. I'm surprised he came down here at all."

"I don't think he wanted to. But his CSO up there had the brains enough to send him down when he passed out on the Bridge."

McCoy felt suddenly vulnerable as Piper fixed him with a piercing stare, the lines on his face pronounced, mouth tight.

"Speaking of Mr. Spock, I heard you had dealings with him after you beamed over." Piper glanced around Sickbay, but it seemed to be well under control. "I won't take long with this, but I feel I need to say it." McCoy tucked his hands behind his back, bobbing a little on his heels in anticipation of a good lecture. "Mr. Spock is the finest Science Officer in the fleet. He comes off a little cold…" McCoy couldn't suppress a snort, and Piper frowned gently, but conceded, "more than a little on occasion, I'll admit. But underneath that tough hide of his he's got a beating heart, and it feels far more than most people give him credit for."

McCoy lifted a shoulder limply. "Captain Kirk said the same thing just a second ago."

"And he was correct," Piper said. "James Kirk has managed to discover the real Spock, as romantic as that sounds, and I believe it's done both of them a world of good. Spock was there for Kirk when Gary Mitchell died a bit ago and I don't think Kirk would have made it through so smoothly without him. Spock is a good man. Eccentric, strange, alien, but he has a good head on his shoulders and a good heart if you know how to look for it. Now, that's all I'll say on the subject."

McCoy's first instinct was to feel defensive, but something about the gentle, insightful Piper reminded him of his father and he could do nothing but nod and mumble, "I understand, sir. Not sure I agree with you entirely, but I understand."

"If you really understood, you'd agree with me," Piper said with a little smile. "But I'll accept it."

He left McCoy there, standing at the foot of Kirk's bed, rocking gently back and forth on his heels. The anger was slowly fading, and as he watched the gentle flow of medico and listened to the soothing whirr of the monitors he felt it turning to hard grief. Suddenly overwhelmed with it, he wished desperately that there was just one more patient he could patch up, just one more surgery to perform that might distract him for just _that _much longer.

But Piper was back now, placing a hand on his shoulder and ushering him towards the door, giving him directions to his own quarters with the command to _sleep for a good eight or nine hours, that's a medical order_. McCoy protested, but Piper was adamant and he found himself out in the corridor with the Sickbay doors shutting behind him, his body screaming at him to follow Piper's advice and give into the exhaustion. With nowhere else to go, he started for Piper's cabin, feeling slightly drunk with aching tiredness and the dread of what he knew was going to be a long night of cacophonic dreams broken again and again by the ghost of Angela Rhead.

* * *

Review! Much thanks!


	9. Nine

First off, I apologize that it's taken me so very long to update. As you can see, I haven't given up on this again! My excuse is school started for me again, and since I'm now an upperclassman (woman?) the work load is fantastic. Second, thanks so much for all of your reviews! It's my favorite thing in the world to open up my email and see that someone has liked my story enough to take the time to comment on it. So thank you all, your reviews keep me going.

-EmRose

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**Nine**

James Kirk was in Engineering. This was significant, because if anyone wearing blue happened to venture this far down in the ship's bowels and spot their escapee Captain he would be manhandled back to Sickbay faster than he could pull his "I'm Captain James T. Kirk" card. Fortunately, he was currently surrounded by busy men and women wearing scarlet jumpsuits who couldn't really care less where he was supposed to be as long as he didn't get in between them and their precious engines. Engineering was an eccentric lot, Kirk had decided. If it came down to a choice between their ship and the Captain they'd actually have to think about it. It was fortunate that he had a genuine like for anyone who loved the _Enterprise_ as much as he did, even if it meant he might come in second place for some of them. Of their loyalty, of course, he had no doubt. Neither had he any doubt that there wasn't a single one among them who was entirely sane. And his Chief Engineer was the worst of the lot.

After an hour spent going over the finer detail of exactly what the radiation from the exploding _Constitution_ had done to the warp engines, Kirk was forced to admit that there really wasn't any way that even Montgomery Scott could get them functioning again in less than two days. That would leave them on Warp Two for the next forty-eight hours, which would put them days behind schedule for their rendezvous with Starbase Four, where the Enterprise was supposed to undergo an extensive dressing-down to check damage from the ion storm. Needless to say, Scott was not a happy man, and Kirk got the distinct feeling that _he _was being blamed for the poor condition of the "wee bairns". He high-tailed it out of Engineering as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, this put him back under McCoy's radar, and as soon as he set foot on the upper decks he was accosted by two medico brandishing a PADD in his face with McCoy's signature scrawled across what looked like a restraining order.

He was escorted back to Sickbay where McCoy was waiting for him. The doctor was self-professedly "well-rested, thank you very much," and though the bags under his bloodshot eyes suggested otherwise Kirk decided it was wiser to keep his mouth shut. At least McCoy was shaved, wearing a clean uniform, and smelling vaguely of antiseptic and mint instead of blood and debris.

"Who released you?" Were his first words, and Kirk scowled.

"I released myself. I feel fine."

"Oh _do_ you? Let me be the judge of that."

McCoy gestured him to a bio-bed. Kirk sat, and McCoy spent the next few minutes poking and prodding, making noncommittal noises in the back of his throat and transferring his gaze from the screen to Kirk's back, shoulders, chest, face and back again.

"Well," he said finally, "You're clear of the radiation. I'd like to keep you here a bit longer to make sure there aren't any long-term effects, but if you'd rather get out of here…"

Kirk was already standing, more than ready to make his way up to the Bridge. McCoy gave a humorless chuckle but waved him on.

"Oh, Captain," he said when Kirk had reached the door, and Kirk paused reluctantly, half-turning to look over his shoulder. "Any idea how far we are from Earth?"

Kirk knew immediately the significance of the question, and he took a few steps back inside Sickbay. The Bridge could wait.

"We're on our way to rendezvous with Starbase Four first, I'm afraid. We're a few days out yet…there's trouble with the Warp Engines. My Chief Engineer assures me we'll be back to full capabilities within two days. I estimate making dock there…six days. Give or take. Then we'll undergo extensive procedures to check for damage from the ion storm…four, five days if I'm pushy enough. Then we'll be en route to Earth, that's another oh, I'd say week and a half out from Starbase Four." He paused, gauged McCoy's reaction, but the man was half-turned away from him, eyes lowered, fiddling with a med scanner. "Why?"

The right side of McCoy's mouth twitched upwards sardonically. "I meant what I said in the transporter room. I'll be asking for reassignment."

Kirk took a few steps closer. He was only partly aware of what had happened between Spock and McCoy on the _Constitution_, but he knew that whatever it was had caused McCoy some kind of extreme grief…grief that Spock, naturally, didn't understand.

"Because of my Science Officer?"

McCoy's gaze flickered to Kirk's, and he looked a little shocked, as if he hadn't been expecting Kirk to be so blunt. His fist closed over the med scanner. "It's complicated."

"I doubt it. Let me see if I can guess." He didn't wait for permission. "You lost someone you knew personally when the _Constitution_ blew. The girl on the comm? You went after her…Spock went after you. You…resisted. He used his Vulcan Nerve Pinch on you. Logic versus emotion, Doc. You lost. You blame Spock. So now you want off my ship to get away from him…and to escape the guilt you feel about the friends you had to leave behind."

Sometime during this speech, McCoy had fixed him with an unblinking stare, and his eyes were the smoky blue of the sky just before lightning strikes. Kirk returned the stare, refusing to give ground, willing the Doctor to give in, to admit the truth, to open up, to consider staying on as Assistant CMO…

It was McCoy who broke first, flickering away from Kirk's unrelenting gaze, lower lip jutting out in not _quite _a pout, but a concession.

"And here I thought I was the one with the experience in Psychology," he said ruefully.

Kirk felt his shoulders give a little, and he exhaled with a little grin. He was about to say something witty to lighten the mood when McCoy's eyes snapped back to his, and Kirk felt his advantage slipping away into a fully-fledged, highly calculated lightning storm. Give an inch with this man, he thought, and you lose it all. Note to self.

"I've done some research," McCoy said, and though his tone was light, conversational, Kirk imagined an undertone of devilish pleasure. Oh, yes. He wasn't sure yet that McCoy even _did_ casual conversation. "And I think we need to have a chat. No, Captain, your Bridge can wait. This is a medical issue that should have been resolved several weeks ago. You've been doing a fine job of hiding it from your crew, but I don't think you're anywhere close…"

"I don't need a psychiatrist," Kirk said. He hadn't been expecting the tables to turn so quickly, and he berated himself for revealing so much of how he was feeling in his own attack on McCoy. "And despite what you think, my Bridge has been without her Captain for over twenty-four hours, and I think it's time I made an appearance."

McCoy's face softened a little, and he reached out a hand and placed it a little awkwardly, but somehow soothingly, on Kirk's shoulder. "I don't mean as your psychiatrist," he said. "I mean as a friend. As someone who understands exactly where you're coming from."

"You didn't kill her," Kirk said roughly. A lump was coalescing in his throat, and he stepped away from the Doctor's hand and lowered his voice to fight the ache. "I killed _him_. How could you possibly understand that?"

If McCoy was surprised, he didn't show it. Instead, he reached out again and placed a hand on Kirk's elbow, applying gentle pressure until Kirk was forced to either take a step forward with him or shrug the hand off again. "Let's talk, Jim. I think we both need it."

Something inside Kirk was still hesitating, still fighting, but the sound of his name was enough to break down the last of his resistance, and he jerked his head. McCoy obviously took it as a yes, because he let up on the pressure a little and nodded towards the comm unit on the wall.

"Why don't you call up to the Bridge and let Mr. Spock know that you'll be up before too long. I'll meet you in Piper's office."

He strode away and Kirk watched him go, tempted for a brief moment to just walk out of Sickbay and leave his demons where they were, but instead he found himself crossing to the comm.

"Bridge, this is Captain Kirk."

_"Spock here."_

"Mr. Spock, I have business in Sickbay. I'll be up shortly to take command."

_"Might I inquire as to the state of your well-being?"_

"I'm fine. The Doctor has other concerns he wishes to address with me."

There was a short pause, and then Spock said, _"Very well, Captain. I shall maintain command until you arrive."_

"Kirk out."

Piper was just leaving his office when Kirk reached the door, and the older man shook his head benignly. "Watch your step with that one."

Kirk snorted. "I intend to." He was about to pass Piper when he was stopped with a hand.

"Would you ever consider keeping him on board?"

Kirk shrugged, lips twitching. "Let's see how this little interview goes before I answer that."

Piper smiled. "In all seriousness, James, I've been meaning to bring this up ever since we lost Gary. It's time I retired. No, now don't argue with me. I'm an old man and I'm only getting older. That young doctor in there has a good head on his shoulders and a good heart in his chest. He's got all the right degrees; all he lacks is experiences, and that's something you can only get out here. I'm submitting my resignation as soon as we reach Starbase Four. By the time you reach Earth they should have another CMO for you…or, if you were to submit a _request_ the same time I submitted my papers_ and a recommendation_ it might just get cleared in time."

"Anything I can do to make you change your mind?"

Piper shook his head. "My mind is made up. I've seen too much, done too much. I'm ready to get my feet back on solid ground and let my poor old bones decay in peace."

"You've got some years left."

Piper chuckled. "Not as many as I'd like to think. But go have your talk. Get some of that weight you've been carrying around off your shoulders."

Kirk watched him go. The thought crossed his mind that if he'd consented to speak to the kind, gentle, fatherly Mark Piper about the Delta Vega incident weeks ago, he wouldn't now be going in to face the brutally honest, sharp-as-a-tack-blunt-as-a-brick Leonard McCoy.

The unfortunate thing about the whole business was that he had no one to blame but himself.

When he entered the office, it was with a large amount of trepidation. He was expecting a cordial, formal reception, where McCoy would stand on his entry and ask him to sit, they'd face each other across the desk, and McCoy would pull out a PADD and begin taking notes. They'd talk about Kirk's guilt issues, his grief, his tendencies to blame himself for things not necessarily his fault, his friendship with Gary Mitchell, maybe even the things he'd felt when he'd had to abandon the Engineering section on the _Constitution._ McCoy would make a record, prescribe sleep, a few drugs, tell him it wasn't his fault, and maybe offer a few more sage, psychiatrically-based words of wisdom, and he'd leave the office perhaps feeling marginally better. That was how it had always gone with Piper. Good intentions, good conversations, kindness, cordiality, with less-than-hoped-for results.

What he was not expecting was McCoy to be seated with both feet swung up onto the desk, staring off into space with a pensive expression, twisting his med scanner meditatively in one hand. What he was not expecting was a bottle of what looked like Saurian brandy and two clear, rounded shot glasses on the desk between them, no sign of a PADD, and certainly no standing formally on the appearance of a commanding officer. He cleared his throat, and McCoy glanced up and waved a hand at the chair closest to Kirk.

"Well, sit down already. I almost started without you."

He swung his legs down and tucked them under the desk ask Kirk lowered himself slowly into the desk chair.

"This is some counseling session."

McCoy was pouring the brandy with what looked like practiced expertise, and he lifted an eyebrow without looking up. "I told you out there, it's not a counseling session. Just a talk between two men who could both use a listening ear."

"And the brandy?"

McCoy offered a shadow of a wink. "Medicinal purposes."

"I see." Kirk accepted the proffered glass and swilled the clear blue liquid around for a second before taking a drink. It burned all the way down, and he felt instantly calmer, more at ease than he ever had with Piper. McCoy let out a loud sigh and settled back in his chair, stretching his legs out to the side and crossing them at the ankle. They sat in silence for a moment, and then McCoy said, "So. According to the medical records submitted by Doctor Piper, you killed Gary Mitchell on Delta Vega."

At least he'd got the blunt bit right. "That's right."

"Want to tell me about it?"

Kirk wanted to say, _no, not really, thanks for asking,_ but instead he cleared his throat again and set the shot glass down gently on the desk. His hands were shaking.

"Gary...went crazy. The ion radiation affected him differently than it did the rest of the crew. He began amassing all these powers, all of these god-like abilities that none of us could understand. He started to become dangerous. We took course for Delta Vega, an old mining planet with no inhabitants. We were going to maroon him there."

McCoy was watching him, but there was nothing analytical in his gaze. When Kirk paused, he said, "The records state that Mr. Spock advised you kill him before you reached Delta Vega, but you didn't."  
"No, I didn't. I'd known Gary since the academy. We were old friends; he was my First Officer. I couldn't just kill him. I was hoping…hoping until the very end that we might be able to find some way to save him."

"But there wasn't a way?"

"You know there wasn't."  
McCoy set his glass down too and crossed his arms across his chest. "I wanted to hear you say it."

Kirk rubbed his closed fist with his other hand, tracing the scars and callouses on his knuckles absently. "No, I don't suppose there was."

"Gary Mitchell died long before you reached Delta Vega. Or so I understand. Would you agree with that statement? Or do you think there was something else you could have done?"

When Kirk opened his mouth to reply, McCoy cut him off. "Jim, I want you to think about that for a second. Was there honestly _anything at all you could have done?_"

Kirk knew the answer. Piper had told him. Spock had told him. But he realized that there was a part of him that didn't believe it. He bowed his head, and then he let out a long, low breath.

"No," he said. "There wasn't anything I could have done."

McCoy didn't reply, and Kirk looked up to see that same pensive look on McCoy's face he had seen when he'd first come into the office. He was staring blankly off somewhere over Kirk's shoulder, shunting his empty shot glass gently back and forth between his two hands. It made a whispering noise across the desk, and for a long moment that was the only sound in the office.

"No," McCoy repeated slowly. "No, there wasn't anything we could have done." He focused on Kirk's face again, and his hands stopped moving; the shot glass was still. He looked down at the glass, and then back up at Kirk, and if his eyes were a little wet Kirk pretended not to notice. "Pour the brandy, Captain," he said. "And tell me about Gary Mitchell."

* * *

When Kirk emerged from Piper's office two hours and half a bottle of Saurian brandy later, he knew three things.

One: he wanted Doctor McCoy of the _USS Constitution_ to become Chief Medical Officer McCoy of the _USS Enterprise_.

Two: he wanted a certain loyal, intelligent, logical Mr. Spock to replace the irreplaceable Gary Mitchell as First Officer.

Three: he wanted the two to decide that they were going to be, if not friends, at least _not enemies_ so that his first two desires could become a plausible reality.

The first want would take time, effort, name-dropping, and maybe a little bit of begging to Starfleet Control. The second would take a simple request that Mr. Spock leave the Bridge in Mr. Sulu's capable hands for fifteen minutes and join him in Captain's Quarters. Of course, then there would follow an extended invitation, a (hopeful) acceptance, and a submitted proposal to Starfleet Command to promote a Lieutenant Commander Spock to Commander. The third might take a miracle.

* * *

When McCoy left Piper's office two and a half hours and a few shots more than a half bottle of Saurian brandy later, he knew two things.

One: he wanted to stay on board the _USS Enterprise_ in whatever capacity they would offer him, even if that meant demoting him to ensign and putting him on security detail.

Two: if he _did_ stay, he would have to both apologize to and forgive one Mr. Spock.

* * *

That's right. More Spock/McCoy confrontation in the next chapter. Here's hoping I can pull it off. :)

Review if you liked! Or if you didn't like! Or if you're completely indifferent! Review!


	10. Ten

****Again, I apologize for the time lapse between chapters. Hope this one works for all of you, cause it kinda does for me. I'm excited about the next few (final?) chapters...I hope I can pull them off like they are in my head...

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**Ten**

When Captain Kirk failed to make a prompt appearance on the Bridge as promised, Mr. Spock went looking for him. He left the ship in Mr. Sulu's inexperienced hands with orders to comm him in case of any even slightly potential danger and made his way down through the corridors to Sickbay on deck five. He entered through the main doors and glanced around—Sickbay was impressively large, comprising most of the deck in a vast labyrinth of offices, examination rooms, surgical rooms, recovery wards, quarantine units, research labs, and equipment storage units. It was run quietly and efficiently by the medical personnel, and a few of them shot him quizzical glances as he passed through, stopping briefly to peer into logical places for the Captain to spend his spare time—the record's office, the research lab, the surgical ward. Something inside him was trying to feel embarrassed, but he ignored it. It was unlike the Captain to stay away from the Bridge voluntarily, and he was concerned that perhaps the Captain hadn't been entirely honest when he'd assured Mr. Spock that he was "cured".

"If you're looking for the Captain," a voice said behind him, "he's in my office with Doctor McCoy."

Spock turned, clasping his hands behind him automatically. "Doctor Piper. I was, indeed, attempting to locate the Captain. Is he well?"

Piper brushed a hand through the air. "He's well enough. Having a heart-to-heart of sorts, both of them. I'm sure he'll be out in good time. Is there a message I can get to him for you?"

"No," Spock said after a moment's contemplation. "I shall wait for him here. I have…matters…to discuss with him."

"You mean you wish to ascertain if he's really in good health," Piper said. Spock searched the doctor's face intently, but there seemed to be no sign that the man was mocking him, just an open, amiable understanding.

"Yes," he admitted. "I do."

"Well, as long as you're here I've got a few questions about the new chemical we acquired on Theta Borelles II you might be able to answer for me…"

* * *

When Kirk emerged from Piper's office almost an hour later, he made a beeline for the Bridge. He was writing a speech in his head, carefully outlining his most persuasive arguments. Why, exactly, should Spock agree to take on the added responsibilities of First Officer? He was capable of the double duty, certainly, but there would be logical reasons against it and Spock was not easily persuaded. He would, he concluded, have to fight logic with logic and forget all of his emotional reasons for wanting Spock to take Mitchell's place. Logic was, after all, the only thing Spock really appreciated. When the turbolift doors opened in front of him he was so engrossed in an imaginary verbal duel with that it took him a moment to realize that Spock was not, in fact, on the Bridge.

"Mr. Sulu, where is Mr. Spock?" It came out sounding more accusatory than he'd intended, and Sulu jumped to his feet by the helm, paling visibly.

"He left, sir, for Sickbay. About an hour ago. I believe he was on his way to find you, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Kirk smiled and hoped it looked appropriately apologetic. "No need to apologize, Lieutenant. If he comes back up here before I do, tell him I'll be back up here shortly. Keep the conn…alert me immediately if we encounter anything unusual."

"Yes, sir!"

Kirk stepped back into the turbolift, and when the doors closed on his view of the Bridge Sulu was still standing rigidly at attention. He smiled to himself; he'd just pulled Hikaru Sulu from the Botany Science Division to train as Chief Helmsman. Gary had been the best, and Sulu had the best Helms score from Command school of anyone on board now. His scores rivaled Gary's, and he was already showing remarkable prowess at both holding a precise, organized command and grasping even the more complex maneuvers it usually took students months to master. He was, however, irrationally insecure in his own abilities, and Kirk took a second to appreciate that Spock had left the young Lieutenant in command—experiences like this would give him confidence, and with natural talent like his he'd soon be the best helmsman in the fleet.

Kirk arrived in Sickbay again and nodded hello again to a bemused nurse who had watched him leave just minutes before. _I know, _he thought. _If I'm not careful I'll become a familiar face around here. _ He stopped a passing technician and was directed to Research Two, where he found both Spock's shining dark head and Piper's snow-white one bent over med tapes and several PADDS that were scattered systematically on a large desk.

"Things slow on the Bridge without me?" he asked teasingly, and Spock looked up, eyebrows contracting. He rose gracefully to his feet, holding a red tape delicately in one hand.

"Captain," he greeted. "I trust you are doing well?"  
"As I said, all cured," Kirk said. "I've just been chatting with the good Doctor." He was in an uncommonly good mood, and as he looked at the Vulcan standing properly before him he had to fight off a grin. He hadn't felt this good since before Delta Vega. "I hate to tear you away, Mr. Spock, but might I see you in my quarters?"

"Of course," Spock said. "Doctor, do you require any further assistance?"

Piper straightened, tearing his eyes away from a PADD and offering a quick, distracted smile. "No, I'll be fine here now. Thank you, you've been most helpful."

Spock set the tape gently back on the table and turned to leave with Kirk. Kirk gestured broadly with one hand, and Spock preceded him to the door but before they could reach it Kirk remembered.

"Oh…" Piper glanced up again, twisting around in his seat to make eye contact. He quirked an eyebrow at the ridiculous smirk that Kirk couldn't stop from twitching at his lips. "I'll sign your resignation papers as soon as you've got them prepared. I do believe I've found a decent replacement bag of bones for your poor old ones."

"Have you now?" A real smile spread across Piper's face now, folding his skin in laugh wrinkles around his eyes. "And that _is_ good news. I am very pleased, very pleased indeed, to hear that."

Kirk shot a glance at Spock, who looked impassively disinterested as always but for a flicker of something Kirk didn't quite catch in the dark, hooded eyes. He decided to ignore it. Reconciliation between potential CMO and CSO was necessary, but other matters had to be taken care of first.

"And how, exactly," Piper was asking, "Did you get him to agree to this arrangement?"

"It was simple," Kirk said, waving a hand nonchalantly in the air. He was hamming it up and he knew it, but heck, it felt _good_. "He might be irritable. Horrible bedside manner. Insubordinate. But those bones have a good, solid skull. Good brain inside. He knew a good offer when he heard it."

Piper was chuckling, and Spock's eyebrow had risen slowly higher the longer Kirk spoke, but there was something of a sparkle in his eyes now, something that said _it is good to have you back, even if it comes with all of the illogical humor of your species._

Behind him, someone _ahem_-ed. Kirk turned on his heel, feeling like he'd just been caught doing something incredibly dangerous, destructive, or stupid. Maybe a combination of all three. Leonard McCoy was leaning in the wide archway leading out to the main Sickbay, arms folded, legs crossed casually, head cocked to the side. Piper's chuckle escalated in both pitch and volume. McCoy ignored it—he was focused on Kirk, and there was something like a dangerous smile lurking on the edges of his face.

"Am I correct in assumin' that you're talkin' bout me, Captain Kirk?"

Kirk fumbled. Spock was a statue just inside the door, looking as if he weren't quite sure _where_ to look.

"I only meant…I only said you had a good, solid sense of...a good brain on your shoulders, inside your head. A good, solid…"

"That's not what I heard," McCoy interrupted smoothly. "_What_ did you call me?"

Kirk fell silent. There was no easy way out of this one. He looked sideways at Piper for help, but the doctor only looked at him, eyes sparkling, looking thoroughly amused and thoroughly unwilling to step in and assist his floundering Captain. McCoy saw the look.

"Let me help you, Captain," he said, and he straightened, sauntered forward slowly, arms unfolding. "You called me a _decent replacement bag of bones_. And then something to the tune of _irritable, horrible bedside manner, _and _insubordinate._ Now, I don't know if I should be flattered or insulted."

"There's more to the story than that," Kirk said, raising his hands in an attempt to defend himself. McCoy wouldn't hear it.

"I think I've heard enough," he drawled. "No explanation necessary."

And with that, he twisted on one heel, putting his back to Kirk and effectively ending the conversation. He was now facing Spock, and Kirk saw his shoulders rise and fall subtly. The smile was still in the doctor's voice as he addressed the Vulcan, though now it sounded a little strained.

"As for you, Mr. Spock, you're due for a thorough physical right about now. If your mouthy Captain over there was exposed to enough radiation to earn him Sickbay rest I'm sure you've got some in your system too."

"Unfortunately, I am due for a briefing with the Captain," Spock said. "An examination will have to wait."

"It'll only take a moment, Doctor, and then he's all yours," Kirk said. The look Spock sent him was as wounded as a Vulcan could give, and Kirk had the sudden feeling he'd just signed Spock's death sentence. McCoy caught the look too, and he sniffed.

"Well, it won't be as bad as all _that_," he said. "I expect to see you in a moment then. Captain." He nodded to Kirk, gave Piper a two-fingered salute, and shouldered past Spock. Almost immediately they could hear him barking at the nurses, asking for reports on the_ Constitution _crewmembers, requesting Vulcan charts brought to Exam III, wondering where in blazes was a man supposed to get a drink of water around here. Piper couldn't stop the smile.

"Sounds like he already owns the place," he said. "I think I'll be leaving you in good hands."

Kirk shook his head wryly. "I'm not sure I know what I'm getting myself into. But that will all sort itself out. Mind if we use your office? I don't want Spock escaping before _the bones_ out there get ahold of him."

Spock sighed subtly, and Kirk interpreted it to mean _really, Captain, your little joke has gone on far enough_. But Piper was still snickering, and Kirk led the way to the office feeling inordinately pleased with himself.

* * *

McCoy was lurking by the door when Kirk and Spock emerged fifteen minutes later. Kirk passed him with a wink and left Sickbay quickly with a bounce in his step; Spock stopped beside McCoy, and there was something a little softer in his face now. McCoy cleared his throat and gestured to the exam room, feeling nervous. Spock preceded him into the room through the open archway in silence, and McCoy felt the need to break it. He wasn't sure that Vulcans appreciated small talk, but it would make _him_ feel better.

"So, you're promoted to First Officer. How does it feel?"

Spock fixed him with an unreadable gaze. "Might I inquire as to how you acquired this information?"

McCoy shrugged it off. "I'm a ship's doctor. I hear things." He smiled brightly to let Spock know it was a joke, but Spock's face didn't change. "The Captain told me he was going to offer you the position," he amended. "Congratulations."

"I have not yet been officially promoted to First Officer," Spock intoned. "There is no need for congratulations."

"Well, when it becomes official, then," McCoy said. "My congratulations."

Spock did not reply, and McCoy lapsed into awkwardness. He performed a thorough examination, referring occasionally to the Vulcan biology charts he had pulled up on his PADD. He was surprised at how much he remembered from his xenobiology courses at school and gratified that he was finally using the material he'd painstakingly memorized about Vulcan physiology.

"Well, I don't know how you did it, but you're clean," he said finally, and his voice was loud to his own ears. Spock stood almost immediately, adjusting his blue uniform top. McCoy's heart began to thud painfully against his ribcage and he reached out a hand to stop Spock from leaving. "But wait, there's one more thing."

Spock stopped and looked at him coolly, expectantly. He swallowed, feeling suddenly vulnerable and defensive.

"I just wanted to…to tell you that I know that…that what happened on the _Constitution_ wasn't your fault," he said thickly. "I've been thinking a lot about it, and I was wrong to accuse you. I hope you'll accept my apology."

"Your apology is unnecessary," Spock replied. "Human emotionalism is a concept I am becoming more familiar with, and I believe I understand why you reacted to my actions in the manner you did. You were intimately associated with the young female who signaled us from the _Constitution_."

It was a statement, not a question. McCoy nodded anyway.

"She was a good girl," he said quietly. "Too young to die."

Spock adjusted his stance, and suddenly, though he remained straight, hands behind his back, legs shoulder width apart, somehow he was more accessible. McCoy felt his own posture relax a little in response, and he let out a sigh. There was a large part of him that needed this Vulcan Officer to understand _exactly_ why he had reacted the way he did, and that wanted to explain all of the feelings he'd managed to discuss with Kirk in a way that Spock would not only comprehend, but appreciate them.

"I have a daughter," he said. "And Angela was her age. A lot like her. When I heard her voice I heard…I heard Joanna. I had to get to her."

Spock was just looking at him, nothing on his face, his body language neutral, eyes expressionless, but McCoy pushed on, beginning to feel desperate to be understood.

"Can you under_stand_ that? I'm a father. I'm a father of a little girl, and that girl on the _Constitution_ had a father somewhere, a man who loved her and still does, a man who will never see his baby girl again because she's dead because I couldn't save her. She's dead because I couldn't get to her, and she was my responsibility, and glory…" his voice cracked and he looked away, exposed, trying to gather himself. Spock still said nothing, and now a wave of red-hot embarrassment shot through his chest and face like fire in his veins and he almost choked on it. Who was he to think that such a man as Spock would care about something so special, so sacred, as fatherhood? As love? As the urgent need to protect a girl that only reminded you of your daughter, that three months ago had been a complete stranger?

"Sorry," he said roughly. "You've probably got plenty to do up on that Bridge of yours. I won't keep you."

His hands moved quickly, fumbling with the instruments he'd left scattered on the bio-bed, tucking them neatly into their proper places in the large medkit from the Sickbay supply closet. He kept his head bent away from Spock, though he could feel eyes on the back of his neck. He snapped the kit shut and tucked it under one arm. He chanced a last, brief glance at Spock's face.

"You're free to go," he growled. Anxious to recover his dignity, he stalked past Spock and walked quickly down the aisle past the other few cots in the room and towards the wide archway that led back into the main Sickbay area.

"Doctor."

He stopped in the doorway. Spock was still standing where McCoy had left him, arms loose at his sides now, and when McCoy reluctantly met his eyes he inclined his head ever-so-slightly.

"I accept your apology, and I offer my own."

McCoy blinked. He had been hoping for a return apology when he'd entered the conversation but had forgotten all about it in wake of his unexpected emotion. He cleared his throat.

"I accept your apology," he echoed. "Thank you, Mr. Spock." Then he plunged out the door, still beet-red with embarrassment. He didn't know what else Spock might have been wanting to say, but he didn't want to hear it. Spock had apologized and that was enough; more than he'd actually expected, in fact. He had wanted only to satisfy his own conscience. This feeling, that Spock had actually been listening and understanding, was shocking. He didn't want to admit yet that maybe he'd misjudged the man, but he knew that sooner or later he'd have to acknowledge it.

For now, he was content to retreat, safe in the knowledge that he could now dislike Spock without feeling guilty about it. He'd done his duty, he'd apologized, he'd received an apology, and there was no part of him that felt anything even remotely positive towards his soon-to-be commanding officer.

No part at all.

* * *

_"It can't be helped. He simply does not have enough experience."_

"With all due respect, he has proven himself more than capable in the aftermath of the _Constitution_'s destruction. He is a skilled surgeon, aided immensely in the stabilization of dozens of casualties, acted with confidence and precision, no hesitation in the face of…"

_"We read your report, and we recognize his abilities. But we stand by the decision outlined in our answer to your request sent this morning at 0900 hours. Leonard McCoy is not an acceptable candidate for the position of CMO aboard the Federation Flagship. He will be reassigned as soon as you reach Starbase Four."_

"I respectfully request that you reconsider once again."

_"And for the last time, Captain, we decline to reconsider. We will send a _suitable_ replacement Senior Medical Officer to replace Doctor Piper. He will meet you on Starbase Four."_

"Then I request that Leonard McCoy be assigned to the _Enterprise_ in the capacity of a junior doctor."

_"Request denied. He has already been assigned to the _Dormant_, which will also rendezvous with you at Starbase Four."_

"The _Dormant_? She's a freighter! You'll have a man of his abilities shipping cargo? I strongly protest…"

_"The _Dormant _is in need of competent medico as much as any other ship. Our decision is made, Captain. There will be no further discussion of the matter. Rendezvous with Starbase Four in six days and await your new crew."_

"Very…very well. Kirk _out_."

* * *

Six days passed. They reached Starbase Four. And that was that.

* * *

Ha...hope you didn't think it'd be _too_ easy for McCoy to make CMO. Cause it isn't.

Review!


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